Sex when you get old...

It happens… it might not be an pretty as sex when you are young and slim, or as frequent… but I like to think that perhaps, if the right imagination and planning were in place, it is more than possible to make up for that lack of quantity with enhancements in quality.

But it takes planning.  When age starts creeping up on us, sex becomes a lot of logistics.  It is like a vacation or perhaps more accurately, a nice meal out.  You need to make reservations, decide what to wear and hope you don’t suffer from some sort of intestinal upset or other malady that would detract from your dining experience.  And perhaps it would be wise to forgo a meal or two immediately prior… just to insure you are sufficiently hungry to eat everything upon your plate.

Sex is like that.  Spontaneity can and sometimes does happen.  Just like grabbing that fast food on the way home or binging on a bag of M&Ms, it satisfies the sudden impulse but it interferes with the healthier dining choice.  But when ones diet consists solely of chips, chocolate and pastry, one starts to crave something more… something of a finer and perhaps more nutritious nature… 

But when one is owned, and owned by control freak, a control freak that is particularly controlling around sex (and now that one thinks about it… food), and a control freak that avoids planning or commitments… a control freak that prefers predictability to imagination… one that made one really good plan and sticks to it invariably… well, this piece of property gets tired of going to the same restaurant every freaking Friday night and one gets even more tired of getting fucked at the same time, same place, same way every freaking Saturday morning…     

"Roll over"

He did it again, the second time this week. The being yanked from deep sleep to urgent, demanding hands... awake hands... There is a qualitative difference. Instantly I too am awake and keenly aware. He wants me. He wants me now. Wordlessly I shift and spread, lick my fingers and reach down and moisten my lower lips to ease his entry and guide him into me.

He is hard, so hot and raging hard in my hand. I wonder if he had been lying there unable to sleep, stroking his cock to get it so hard, so ready. Or did he just have a dream and wake up this way, aching and hungry for me. He makes a small grunting moan of satisfaction as he first pushes into me. I am awake but not aroused. The first thrusts are rough and just slightly painful in my dry and sleepy cunt.

I am on my back, on leg pulled up and the other over his hip. He grips those legs and spreads them even wider, making me grunt with effort and discomfort. His thigh slides up onto my belly as we scissor and I become aware of how much I need to pee. I grit my teeth and tighten up on him, both to enhance his pleasure and to keep from leaking on him as he slams into me.

He pulls at my legs impatiently and grinds against me, pushing as deep as possible and the breath catches in his throat as he comes. He keeps his grip on my for a long time, sliding his cock in and out of me, teasing every last shiver of pleasure out of his cock before he releases me. I finally reach for a cloth from the stack by the bed and hand it to him, whispering that I really, really need to pee, pushing his heavy leg up and off my bladder.

I scoot out of the bed and rush to the toilet, holding a second towel against me to catch the spill of come the wants to trickle down my leg and shudder with a tiny spasm of dreadful delight as I can finally let the piss out. It feels so good.

He lifts the blankets up, a gesture of apparent invitation and I slip up next to him preparing to snuggle close and his elbow slams into my face as he turns his back to me. I gasp and chuckle at the accidental blow. His voice is soft, sleepy and just a little amused, "Get back on your side of the bed, Bitch." But then he reached around and pulled me to spoon tight against his back, and spoke one last word. "Sorry."

I can see over his shoulder the red letters of the alarm clock. 3:00 am. I press close to his back and close my eyes, savoring the warmth and the slight sting and tingle between my legs. As I fall asleep I think about how much I like this sex, this sex that does not expect anything from me but my devotion to his pleasure. There is no thought of my needs. I am just a receptacle, a warm and willing hole to use... an object to masturbate into.

Stepping off the Path

I think one of the best things about Master’s rigid adherence to routine is when he does make a left turn, changes it up; everything is suddenly filled with sweet surprise. Suddenly I don’t know what to expect.

As I write this I have this thought that the routine, the predictability breeds expectation and on some very basic level the illusion of control. If I know what to expect, I know what to do and if I know what I am supposed to do, I am getting ready for the next expected step in the dance. When I am bent over in the shower, not only am I focused on what I am supposed to be doing at that moment, I am also getting ready for the inevitable tap, the signal to switch position, to spin around and open my mouth.

So when Master steps off the path, the treadmill, and heads off in some unexpected direction, it takes me by surprise, leaves me breathless with uncertainty. I can’t know what to do, can’t know what he expects; I have to pay infinitely close attention to him. All sense of certainty and control magically evaporates.

I know we have been flirting with various ideas of bondage. I have been sanding and painting and attaching various pieces of hardware to my spreader bar. He has been demanding that I wear my collar, wrist and ankle cuffs during everyday activities. He took me to the hardware store and bought a number of snap hooks and dug out some rope and figured out an ingenious way to just hook them to a loop.

But Master is not one to show his hand. And definitely not one to change his ways, and I know better than to even hope for change or have a wish or indulge in expectation. And our day started exactly like every weekend day does. Quiet and coffee, computers and parallel play… him killing monsters… me writing about them. Then the quick, sharp directive comes to change gears, to put on exercise clothing and to come for a cycle ride. All normal… all expected… all safe and predictable.

We get home and I know without needing to think that I will be in the shower soon, bent over or on my knees, waiting the signal to turn and present the other orifice for his pleasure. And there is a certain masochistic pleasure there, the knowledge that he likes it this way and that his likes take precedent, that my need for kink, need for novelty, need for pain and helplessness and humiliation take fourth or fifth or last place in his world. I don’t know if selfishness is the right word… because it rings negatively in my head. He definitely puts himself first but so do I.

All the rituals were there, the stripping of clothing, a brief interlude in the bedroom when he questions why I have two towels… somehow this offends his sensibilities. I guess a person in this house should have only one towel hanging on their hook. This is normal, a constant observation and constant correction… it is the core of control. It is familiar; it is the real rope that binds me to him.

We move to the bathroom, all the same preparations, micromanaged tooth brushing, shaving under his sharp eagle eyes, waiting to enter into the shower after him, careful to stay in my tiny corner while I shampoo, soap and finish shaving. Waiting his touch to let me know when I have permission to move into the water to rinse. I remember I got soap in my eye and stood there all squinched up, waiting. It did not occur to me to tell him that I had soap in my eye. He noticed my face and said in an impatient voice that I could have asked to rinse my face if I had soap in my eye. But that is not part of the dance, me asking for things. I think I would rather stand there with soap in my eye than to step off the path. I am not allowed to step off the path, break tradition or ritual.

His first touch is familiar, the sudden demanding shove down on my shoulders and after a token resistance, a sparkle of mock “make me” in my eyes, I am down on my knees, fluffing him for the next step in the dance, the tap that means stand up and bend over.

But the tap does not come.

He says… SAYS… (you need to know that Master rarely verbalizes during sex) He says, “Stand up.”

I boggle. I stop sucking and my eyes lift up and up and meet his, staring at him in confusion with his cock still in my mouth, not sure if I heard him correctly.

He turns off the water. Now I really don’t know what is going on.

We get out and dry off. He is talking about mundane shit, politics or maybe social issues? For the life of me… I can’t remember. I don’t think I was listening all that closely. I am still trying to figure out what is happening. Trying to guess what is coming next so I will know what I am supposed to do. I have lost my sense of control and I am more than a little uncomfortable.

He does not head downstairs. He wraps the towel around himself and wanders into my room and begins to gather up things… rope… leather collar, wrist and ankle cuffs, spreader bar. He does not speak when he walks down stairs and I follow with wide eyes.

He wordlessly hands me the cuffs and I begin to put them on, fumbling with buckles, distracted because he is taking the rope and tying it to the bed. He puts snaps on it. My hands are up and no longer under my control. He grabs my ankles and snaps the spreader bar between them and with a strong grip and lift, two more clicks and my feet are up attached at the same point as my hands. I am spread wide with my feet fastened down somewhere up over my head. I am rewarded by the sight of my shaved pussy about six inches from my wondering eyes.

Every time I move, there is the rattle and click of stainless steel snaps, I tentatively stretch and struggle but I am well restrained. I could get away if I needed. I can just reach one or two of the snaps with my finger tips, I could just unsnap myself, but the possibility does not occur to me. I have the ability but not the freedom. Master comments that I well and truly fucked.

I can see him, see him peruse the selection of implements of ass destruction, touching, hefting, lifting, swinging. His eyes meet mine and seem alight with sadistic anticipation. He grabs the strap and hits me with it. Crack! It sizzles across my ass. Crack! Crack! I buck and squall. The snaps rattle. He moves up my thighs. It is so close I can feel the wind on my face, my eyelids reflexively blink. He picks up the old cane, the first one we bought and greets it… “Hello, old friend.”

I can see the welts raise up, the white lines that slowly grow pink and then red. Master comments how he likes to strike exactly “There…” as he repeated slashed into the tender crease where thigh meets ass. I blink and blink. I know he won’t hit my face but it is so close. None of the blows are beyond bearing, the intensity manageable and I find myself savoring each new wave of pain, of burn, sting, ache, itch… like a gourmet, tasting, analyzing, luxuriating.

He keeps changing weapons. And I watch… I see… I know what is coming. He picks up the squid and I blurt out a fearful warning, as if he did not already know… “That thing breaks pussies.”

And he grins and drags it between my legs and then taps me threateningly with it a few times and then moves on to floggers and focuses his cruel intentions upon my pussy only inches from my face. I can tell he is moderating his blows but I am spread, open and vulnerable. I can feel the hits right on my clitoris. It sends electric shocks of sharp pain through me and rather than subside, the burn builds and I can feel my clit swell.

He frees my hands and hands me my vibrator. No words, no verbal command, but his expectation is obvious. It always is intense, that first rush of contact with the buzzing end of that little machine. It always makes me shudder and whimper. I think he likes that. His eyes light up with approval. He digs around in the toy bag and returns with the largest dildo… a silly great big pink thing that vibrates and soon I am filled to bursting, new waves of sensation rising up from inside. He tips it sharply up, deliberately searching for my g-spot. I think my eyes must be crossed, unfocused, my whole body tense and trembling with the immense orgasm I can feel building within me.

Right as I come, I open my eyes and meet his gaze. Right before I come, there is that precious moment of clear, pure, intense pleasure, that sudden exponential build of indescribable sensation, and I stare deep into his eyes, suddenly still, perfectly still, a deep gasp of wonder as I exhale and relax. All the struggle is over, I know I don’t have to focus anymore, try anymore… I could not stop it now if I tried. In that briefest of eternities I am calm, euphoric, infinitely in love. I am there, standing in the path of raging flood, fully aware that I am going to become engulfed.

And then it is here. It crashes into me, sweeps over me, through me, picks me up and shakes me. I am no longer in control of my body, my voice. I cry out and convulse. The sounds of the metal clips are loud in my ears. I fight my bonds. But I know he wants more, demands more, will not accept anything less than all I can give. I do not drop the vibrator. It comes in waves… crashing peaks that only seem to build and build. And the valleys between the peaks are filled with all the clarity and pure pleasure that is that perfect moment immediately before I come. Over and over I pause and sigh, meet his eyes and connect and before it takes me away again.

He only relents when I drop the vibrator, finally spent, drained, used up. My legs are starting to ache from being bound over my head and I tense and pull against the rope and snaps holding them to the spreader bar, forcing blood to flow. He reaches up and unsnaps the bar of wood holding my legs apart and presses down on the backs of my thighs, pushing my legs down and up even further as he enters me.

My mind is clear and I watch him as shadows of pleasure chase across his face, his lips tighten and pull back. His brows are furrowed in a frown of intense concentration. His hands are hard, gripping, his fingertips digging into my skin. I watch with awestruck, fascinated eyes. He moves slowly, deliberately. I can see how each movement, each thrust, each slow slide out and back in, sends waves of pleasure through him. I reach down, touch him where our bodies join, slide my fingers around the hot, wet, slickness, and am rewarded by a soft groan. His whole body shudders and flexes, little trembling spasms shake through him as he comes.

Master unsnaps the last of the hooks holding me down and I finally can straighten my legs, turn and curl up on my side. I lay there for many minutes, empty of thought, floating, warm, soft… savoring the surprise… the sweetness of stepping off the path.

Expections and Surprises

Well, I obeyed Master... I spent most of yesterday afternoon cruising the web reading erotica, looking at nasty videos, thinking about sex... generally pushing all my horny bitch buttons over and over... without masturbating.

And I worked hard at not having the bad, bad, bad expectations. I did not let my head even go to the "he promised... I need him too..." place. I just rode the wave of my mental tease, savoring the throb that seemed to lodge itself permanently in my belly.

And you know when Master got home, he wasn't all that goal directed. He was all debate about what to do... trip to hardware store... dinner out... sex... walk... bike ride???? The sex option did not seem to be standing out as even having a chance. And I was good, I did not even have a bit of rage or disappointment... I just asked clarification and changed into a dress in case he wanted to leave. He sat and sat and finally after about an hour he said to me... "I will let you decide."

You know what I said... "Oh, if it is up to me... I want the sex."

He still sat there for a long time but finally wandered about the house, found some fans, turned the AC up and ordered me to clean off the bed in my room. This was a change in our routine but my room is closer to the air conditioner (old clunky window unit near his big chair). I cleaned off my bed and grinned at him and threw myself down, still expecting that "get in the shower" command... heck, I can count on on hand the number of times we have had sex without starting in the shower. Master is a hygiene freak after all.

But as I lay on the bed I heard the familiar rattle of canes and paddles and floggers... mmm... I ripped the dress off over my head and threw myself back down on my belly, presenting my back and ass, writhing and vibrating in anticipation. It had been weeks since we had a good pain session. He took his time, sensually tap, tap, tapping in fast light cadence up and down my body with the cane, occasionally throwing in a sharp snap to keep my on my toes and to keep me from getting too relaxed.

He switched up weapons and kept the lighter sensation play going. He spent a lot of time just dragging the flogger or the tip of the cane over my skin. I lay there totally zoned out, just feeling it. Yet, now and then there would be this unexpected surge of pain as he would bring something down on my hard... a paddle... the cane... or that odd, dangerous flogger made from the discarded jump rope... that thing is a frightening mix of intense thump and burn. It is hard not to turn my head and watch him with apprehensive eyes when he has it in his hand.



But today, he was focusing on the sensual. He grabbed my panties and ripped them down my legs. And that is soooo hawt. He shoved my legs apart and the end of the cane explored my crack and folds... and it tickles so crazy that I cannot help but shriek and giggle. He began to focus the blows of the string flogger between my legs, rhythmic light swishing snaps that make my cunt sting and glow.

I was totally floating and I turned over onto my back, keeping my legs wide and closing my eyes. He took the time to include my breasts in the rhythm, the string flogger snapping my nipples, sending the sting through me but always returning to my eager, offered up cunt. Then this totally strange thing happened... something that nearly lifted me right up off the bed. It felt like about a hundred little fingers tickled and massaged and poked me in about a hundred places at once right between my legs. I sat right up and shrieked staring down at that weird pink jump rope flogger being swirled, jiggled and rubbed against me. It was like being attacked by a very amorous and talented squid... ten amorous and talented squids. It tickled but it also felt crazy good.

I looked up at Master and exclaimed... "That is not a flogger... that is a sex toy! That feels fucking awesome!"

He grinned and continued his alien probing of my pussy.

I collapsed back and focused on not laughing like a hyena and letting those new and amazing fingers do their magic. Now normally, it takes A LOT to make me come but after all the porn and all the sensual caning and flogging, I was totally fucking turned on and it wasn't more than a minute than I was coming like crazy. This is very cool... because it isn't very often I can come without a little assist from a vibrator or my own fingers. For Master to get me there solo... is very, like I said, cool.

Master threw a blanket over me and went off to look at porn on his 'puter. After basking in the warm tingly after glow I got up and floated out and snuggled up to him and looked at numerous improbably buxom and slim young beauties being restrained, hurt and forced to orgasm... endless fucking machines and stylized fake orgasms. It was pretty... if not realistic... but I have to admit... in small, infrequent doses, pushes my buttons.

We did end up in the shower and had usual hygienic fucking under the hot water. And to my happy surprise, I totally turned on again by the time he was done with me and I begged to be allowed to come again. He laughed and sent me downstairs to my vibrator... telling me to not fall asleep because he was hungry and wanted me to get him dinner. I was totally giggling with satisfaction when I came back up to make salad.

It was a fun Friday night, a great way to start the weekend.

I think I will call that funny pink jump rope flogger "the squid"... and when he picks it up, I think I will have more than fear in my eyes.

I find myself fearful...

Since Master beat me last Friday, beat me with the Gom Jabbar, leaving those evil black welts along the sides of both my thighs, the bruises grew and grew, black, red, purple... the original black welts changing to deep red stripes surrounded with a sickening yellow. The bruises are like flowers, deep black and purple hibiscus with strange yellow hearts and red stamens. And they still hurt to sit upon... six days later.

And it is a disturbing fact that when Master gives me those random swats, those unexpected smacks as I walk by, lean over to get laundry from the dryer, or make the bed... when my ass is within reach... he aims for my flanks, for those twin islands of pain that linger there. He hits me there deliberately, I think to remind me that they are there as much as for the fact that he likes that it hurts me there more.

And I find myself fearful. I have not been seeking him out, not been deliberately placing myself within reach, not flaunting, flashing, swinging the target provocatively in his face. I have not been waving the red cape in the bull's face... In fact I have been retiring, avoidant, and when he does reach for me... terrified. My mouth goes dry, my heart pounds in my throat... and he senses that fear and seems to like having it there.

And it is not a small part of me that trembles in anticipation for when he does take me down to his lair, does decide to really beat me again with intent... how will it be different? ...will I still laugh? ...or will he indulge in this new appetite of his, his hunger for my fear. And if he does, will I be strong enough to give him what he hungers for...

So far, there have been no beatings beyond those random swats, the daily endless "love taps" that punctuated my days. He seems to be focusing on the plundering of my mind, pursuing the endless and varied mindfucks that keep me off balance, unsure of myself... little things like asking if I am feeling better when I had never said I felt bad. And when I respond, "But Master, I've been feeling just fine." He attacks, grabbing a nip, pinching and twisting so cruelly that I cannot speak, his voice cruel and amused, "But, my pet, that is not what I asked." Yet there is no way to answer that question... If I had said yes, that would not have been true... I have not been feeling bad so if I had said "yes"... that would infer that I had... and if I said "no" while that would be the literal correct answer, because if there had been no actual change in my well being... it still would have inferred that I was in some way feeling "bad"... meh... he just wanted me to be confused and wanted to pinch my titties... bastard... It wouldn't be so bad if there weren't a dozen other similar things a day. Thank god he has to go to work. His dick has been in my ear all week... it is starting to chafe.

Last night, deep in the dark, hours after I was sawing logs... he grabbed me, rolled me over and just shoved it in. He was going at it top speed by the time I woke up enough to realize this was the real thing and not a dream. It was all him, I was just a warm wet hole to masturbate in. No words were ever spoken. It was awesome to be used like that... like a fuck hole... an object, a tool to use to make it easier to fall asleep. I think he enjoys the sensation of fucking me when I am not aroused more, I am dryer, there is more friction... he calls it traction. He comes faster... and pulls away without words or cuddles... and is soon asleep.

I found myself walking around in the night, doing those prophylactic measures to keep the UTI's away... peeing and taking my antibiotics. Happily I went right back to sleep. Normally when he uses me like that it frequently means I am up for a couple hours... thinking, analyzing, savoring... I got to leave that for this morning.

Three weeks

I got to thinking… it has been nearly three weeks… three weeks since I have really made love with Master.

Oh sure… he has been getting his… his “shower sex”…He loves shower sex. It is easy, fast, hygienic… selfish. It starts with a nonverbal shove, pushing me to my knees, a casual gesture toward his cock. He might grunt “suck it” but anymore, I know what he wants and I quickly take him in my mouth. He holds my wet hair in his fists and controls the pace. I think he likes the sensation and sounds of my struggle when he slides deep into my throat. He paces it, savoring the experience, taking his time, growling with pleasure and when he finally cannot contain it any longer or the hot water starts to fade, he will roughly grab me, lift me, turn me around and sharply shove my head down as he slams it deep into my cunt.

There rarely is any foreplay and I am usually dry. But he likes that, likes the added friction. He calls it traction and, because he already is so close, he comes quickly. He pulls out, turns, washes off the sticky and goes on about his day. It’s all good for him.

There is no expectation that I orgasm or even that I become significantly aroused. It does turn me on, the very dynamic, the selfishness, the knowledge that he can do it like that, can take without any consideration for me is exciting. And I like to suck cock. I love the sensation, the taste, the smell, even the sensation of gagging is erotic for me. And the sensation of him in me, fucking me, the tissues stretching and burning with his come… it is very good. But it is not enough, not long enough, and the position of standing bent over with shower water running up my nose, I just can’t quite come that way and he knows that. It all just leaves me wanting more.

I am not under any masturbation prohibition. It is perfectly okay with him if I masturbate a dozen times a day. Though he does love to sneak up on me and scare the shit out of me at that moment when the eyes drift shut and the imagination is a thousand miles away. He loves to poke me then and laughs maniacally as I shriek and sob in shocked, embarrassed terror. But that is another story, the thing is masturbation does not meet the need inside me. It just makes me want him more, want the orgasm from him more. It is like food without calories, it does not feed me. The more I cram into my empty belly, the more my body starves. I think he is very aware of this and finds my suffering amusing as well.

Now Master can be a wonderful lover and frequently is but lately… lately the world has conspired to sabotage any slow paced, uninterrupted, love making. And I feel the empty place inside me growing. I am beginning to count the days and I find I am not masturbating as much. It just makes me feel sad and hopeless to even try to meet this need on my own. It just makes things worse.

Last night was the worst. He came home and when I greeted him, hugging him, asking him about his day, asking him what time he would like his dinner served, he grabbed me and took me downstairs and pushed me down upon the bed. But rather than subjecting my body to pain, he lay down with me kissing me… kissing and kissing and kissing me, his warm strong hands roaming, caressing, torturing me with pleasure. And as I sighed and arched and moaned he laughed, his eyes dark with passion and power. He whispered to me that there was not going to be relief, that he was just teasing me and I wrapped my hands in my hair and pulled, that long low kind of hard pull that sends pain all the way down my spine.

He ordered me to stop hurting myself, to stop pulling at my own hair. He rolled me over and began to beat me with that new strap, and the cane but eventually he yanked my pants down, baring my ass and just spanked me with his bare hands. O all the things in his arsenal, nothing can compare to his bare hands. He spanked me until I was breathless and then rolling me over onto my back to look down into my face, he smiled and finally told me to go ahead and cook his dinner.

And now this morning… this morning I am so acutely aware of how much I need him to fuck me, to hold me down, to pound me, to be able to come at his command, to be held in his arms as the waves of pleasure and surrender shake me to my soul and I do not know when we will find the time to be together. It is going to be a busy weekend and finding even an hour of time for ourselves, to get horizontal, is going to be a challenge.

(I wrote this in my journal yesterday. I am quite delighted to say that today we did find that hour. And we did get horizontal… well as horizontal as you can call having your knees tucked up around your ears. I am still tingling and all is well with the world.)

Thrashed

Thrash, thrashing, thrashed… a new word, a happy word.

Yesterday morning as I received my usual hug, kiss, nipple grab and swat good bye as Master left for work, he commented that it had been a while since he thrashed me. I could not help but whimper and wiggle as I enthusiastically agreed. He said that that night when he got back from work I would get a thrashing and I started to jump up and down. It had been a while, over a week. But I know better than to get my hopes up too high. Master is fond of saying things like that and then retracting it just to watch me squirm in frustration.

And when he got home, he greeted me in his way, a hug, a kiss and the usual painful grab and yank of a nipple or two. A sadistic grin accompanied the final swat or two, “Ready for your thrashing?”

Squeals of eager anticipation and a vigorous nod, “You like that word? Thrashing?”

I was practically wagging my tail, but still the dry voice in my head was saying, “Slow down, don’t act too eager.” And he did sort of withdraw, go about his coming home routine, emptying pockets, smoke a cigarette, mess around with the computer, then sit down and have a snack. When he settled down deeper into his big chair and began to flip around on the channels of the television, I knew better than to push, to even speak of it.

I sat quietly and worked on a story, sending him side long glances… five o’clock turned to six and I knew that if I did not get dinner started soon, it would too late. I got up and began to get out the ingredients and he instantly was up and grabbing at me, shoving me around, twisting me, hurting me… basically just being a bully. He does that. As soon as I move, it is like triggering a predator reflex. And if I have something I am doing, some focus on a task, he loves to interrupt me. He knows how making me stop doing something I am focused on grates. He thrives on the resistance.

Just as irritated as he wanted me to be, I struggled to get away, to work on the thing I was doing and the more I fought the more he seemed to be enjoying himself. Finally I said in my best airport announcement voice, “We are sorry the thrashing hour is past, it is now the cooking hour, please come again…”

He let me go, said, “Okay, no thrashing,” then he walked away.

Damn, it is such a fucking balancing act, if I act to eager he will not do it just to make me suffer mentally. But if I take the resistance a step too far, it can do the same. I did not chase after. I did not say anything. I did not even look at him. I was determined not to squirm. I went right back to my original task.

It wasn’t sixty seconds when he was back with a vengeance, grabbing me harshly and dragging me physically down the stairs to his lair. He is so strong and I cannot even begin to pretend resistance now. I am totally giggling with wild exhilarated excitement. He shoves me into his room and I am instantly stripping. I can’t get my clothes off fast enough.

He has so many things to hit me with and he does not like me to know which he is going to choose. I know this, lay face down on the bed and hide my eyes. My heart was already racing, and my breathing fast. He always starts harsh, I knew it is going to hurt… and hurt a lot. He wants me to scream at the first blow and keep screaming the whole time. I could hear him rattling things around, sticks, whips, paddles, canes… I listened, my skin prickling in anticipation.

Would it be the little fiberglass stick with its hot, lancing, searing sensation like I have been burned? It is silent and deadly and when he hits me with it, he does it in rapid staccato snaps, leaving behind a constellation of lingering pain. Or will it be the huge wide paddle that covers my whole ass in one blow, heavy hard and noisy. Or the flogger, or the cane, or the heavy spatula or the thick leather belt, each with their signature sound, and pain. The very cries they force from my lips are different. I don’t know which I fear the most and love the most. He makes me wait. He knows I am waiting.

The swish and sting is unmistakable. It was the string flogger, the one he spent so much time tying the knots in recently. Of course, he would choose that, he is still in love with it. He spread the blows out, knees to shoulders. I squealed and undulated… and laughed. I don’t know why I laugh but I do, I always do. Between shrieks, groans, sobs and tears, it is always there, giggles, cackles, even at times deep roaring belly laughs.

Then BANG, the force of the paddle drove the air from my lungs and I yelled with the pain, he hit me over and over with it until I was strangling on the pain. I writhed and twisted. I could not lay still. Then just one swish and sting, the bite of the flogger was almost a relief and I groan in relief. But then snap, snap, snap, like the shots of a machine gun the cane bit into my tender and stinging ass. I screamed loud and hoarse. When I think I could take another blow it changed. He chooses another weapon. It never lessens but the tone, but the very flavor of the agony transformed and as it does I can absorb more. It filled me up, washed away all thought, I am reduced to a mass of nerve endings.

Every time I started to take a breath, started to adjust, started to come to terms with it, he used the smallest and most vicious of his toys, that terrible little bit of fiberglass. It was silent, yet it wrung from me the most panicked and frantic of shrieks. It was like being bitten, stabbed, stung by bees and every touch stayed aflame, burned and stung and grew in pain rather than eased and subsided. It was like he is touching me with a red hot wire. And it ripped asunder any control I may have achieved, shattered any refuge of peace I have found in the storm of agony.

As I realized that I had no control, that there is no place to hide, I choke on a sob and then began to laugh, deep wild laughter. And he laughed with me as he beat me, changing weapons more and more quickly. There was no predicting. Once when a sensation was strange, alien and beyond my comprehension I twisted and looked, wondering if he had found some new thing to torture me with but it was just the same string flogger he had started with. My tormented nerve endings were playing tricks on me. He growled for me to pull on the blind fold. He loves the sudden panicked recoil and surge of my body as some new unexpected sensation tears at my resolve to be still, be still and absorb every instant of this experience. If I were to see what object was in his hands, I would be able to anticipate. I do miss the chance to watch his face as he beats me; I wish I could see his face sometimes.

Finally I cannot scream anymore. I laid, letting the soft grunts of pain, the soft choking whimpers and, still, the soft laughter leak unrestrained from my panting lips. But I could not scream or struggle any longer and he said, “You have had enough.”

I mumbled against the mattress, “No, not enough.” But I rolled over and pulled up the blindfold and looked up at him. He still had the tools in his hand, was still hefting them and staring at my nude body. I met his eyes, writhed provocatively and ran my hands over my tingling skin. I was still panting from exhilaration. He swung and I watched as the flogger made contact with my now exposed breast, and I cried out once, a sharp exhaling, “Ahhh,” as the pain sank in. I watched like a spectator as my skin turned red and my nipple shrank instantly into a tight knot. And again, I couldn't help but burst into giggles.

He picked his targets then, breasts, belly, pubis, inner thighs, used the string flogger only now. He is more confident with it, knowing exactly where it will strike. His blows were more restrained there, on the front of my body. The pain was more intimate and I could finally see his face and he could see mine... see the pain and the joy, the struggle and the acceptance.

He said again, “You have had enough.” And finally he put down the tools of pain and lay down beside me. His lips were warm as he gently kisses me and then moved down to take one of sensitized nipples between his lips and teeth. He bit down and I tensed and shuddered under him, and, for the first time, felt the rush of arousal.

I find the infliction of pain is infinitely pleasurable. It is intense, exhilarating, raw, intimate but, strangely, it is not sexual for me. But the adrenaline, the trust and the intimacy leave me so open, so ready for his touch. Each caress is magnified, my skin so sweetly sensitive, and my busy brain for once silenced. At his first touch I was totally his.

He laid beside me, still fully dressed, leaning up on one elbow so he could watch me more closely as he touched me, ran his finger tips across reddened and tender flesh, once again reveling in the surge and undulation of this body he so completely controlled.

He found my center, seizing and pressing, his fingertips danced in those primal rhythms that I cannot resist. Once again he sought my voice, listened to the sounds of my building passion and as I arched, pressed up against his caress and cried out, he made a soft satisfied sound of triumph. He had me completely in his power and he did not stop. If anything, that touch, those fingers only pressed harder, rubbed harder, forced more from me. I convulsed, I thrashed, I screamed, and, bubbling up between pleading lips, there was still more laughter. Even when it was beyond pleasure and was just reflexive jerks of exhausted, flesh I did not push away his hand. I gave him what he wanted, just like he gave me what I needed.

Today, I run my hands over my skin, examining and celebrating each red mark, each bruise, each tiny red line left by the evil little piece of fiberglass, savoring, remembering.

Thank you, Master