Were my eyes blindfolded, or just closed in anticipation?
Hands cuffed behind me in those velcro binders, my tits thrust upward to receive each blow. The feeling of the little cane at first is a playful kiss.
I can’t see His face, but the feeling in the air around us changes…charges up and I just know things are about to take a turn for the…better? worse? both, then.
The light teasing kisses of the cane become solid whacks against my tits. He focuses for a time on slapping the clamps that are locked onto my nipples.
Then the rat-a-tat-tat on the very end of the clamp.
Left tit……………………………………Right tit………………….
moaning, groaning, fidgeting.
His arm is around me, hugging me close. Just far enough away that I keep receiving those damned tap-tap taps, and cannot pull away. Is He pinching my upper arm, holding me there?
Do not know.
Do not remember.
Just the pain of it. The beautiful pain of being His toy, being so used.
And then pushed away, pushed back. Face to the wall, cane on my ass. My thighs. My calf. My arms. My back. Short, hard, stinging blows. I dance when He hits my calves. Hurts so fucking – fucking – fucking much.
He is amused by the little stampings of my feet as he thwacks me. Teases me about the little mincing steps, wonders if I was in a marching band as a kid. And laughs.
Cane is done for the nonce, and other toys come out to play. But the most dangerous of them all is simply Him. He can turn *anything* into a weapon.
I got new shoes, flats. So cute. Faux snake-skin, little flat heel, and very comfortable.
Comfortable on my feet.
Master loves shoes. He picks them up and studies them.
“no. no no nononononononono…Masterrrrrrrrrrrrr”
He has this ….nasty little smile. Or maybe it’s just the Dom smirk? It was there on His face and I knew it was coming, and nothing I could say would change it…
I loved those little shoes.
I hate them. Loathe them. Despise them.
I will wear the mark of them on each upper-thigh for a long, long while. And on my ass. And I’ve not even checked to see if they left marks on my feet.
Yes, He hit me on the soles of my feet with my own damn shoes.
He not only tickled my feet, my toes, but also ran ice between them, then buried the remnants in my pussy. And then the cane came out. The bottoms of my feet were resoundingly hit with that as well.
I’d always wondered why girls in those videos from Kink.com screamed when their feet got whacked.
I was laying on my back on the bed. Still in my “street clothes” and not “dressed” for Him, though my skirt was rucked up around my waist. He’d been assaulting my ass, my legs, my toes for a long long while.
I lay there, looking up at Him. Watching this …look…cross His face. He was smiling, a little bit. His eyes on mine, He pulled his belt free from the loops of His jeans, slowly drawing it out, then folding it in half.
He tapped His palm with it, then swooshed it against my bare hip. It was a gentle blow, a caress. The feel of leather against my flesh is quite a turn on.
He was still smiling, His expression unchanged, as His arm drew back as before. Yet somehow, I knew. Maybe the set of His shoulders. I closed my eyes as the blow came.
The sound of it, the leather impacting…that comes first, I think. The pain is at first a sting that doesn’t feel too bad…for a millisecond. And then the bloom of it. It spreads out, down through the flesh, and out across the surface…not in a ripple. Way more like a tsunami of sensation.
Sharp delineations on my skin, parallel lines where the edges of the belt press indentations into my body. Ass, thigh, ass, thigh, I have no memory of how many swipes there were.
Just the memory of opening my eyes, finding His on me, and the flick of His forefinger, gesturing me to roll over, bare my other side to Him.
Between sessions, He holds me as we lie on the bed. He lets me breathe, absorb all the sensations. I was totally spaced, held in His arms tightly. His scent fills me, His body warms me, as I shiver with the afterflow of pain.
When I come back, in my head, to Him, I smile against His chest, and coo insipidly at Him that He is such a “snuggle bear”.
One wonders why I enjoy dangling the bait like that. Lions don’t just take the bait, and hook…they eat you, for fucks sake!
The backs of my upper arms were still bruised, a full week after that little pinching game from our last Starbucks meet…He’d been pinching me again and again throughout the afternoon…
it fucking hurt.
Yet, there I was, cooing at Him. I do so love those cuddly “intersessions” that help re-center me. And snugged against Him so tight, He not only warms and soothes me, but He immobilizes me as well. Does He know, I wonder, how wonderful it is to be held that tightly? That it is the balm I need, after an intense session?
But being immobilized, it’s just not a smart move to taunt the bull, to lure the Lion. He tucks my head under His chin and begins torturing the back of my upper arm.
Already sensitive, already new bruises forming over last weeks painful markings. Already thwacked with shoes and cane and belt and hands…already so sore, so painful.
“Master is such a sweet cuddle bear…” His voice is simpering, teasing me.
I couldn’t help it, He was so funny. And then I’d moan and cry, and writhe.
I spent a lot of time trying to get away.
He is both implacable will AND immovable object.
So..perhaps a lesson was learned?
*ponders* *taps bottom lip with finger*
Well, I do love teasing Him. I do love dancing at the edge of the fire. I do love stirring a reaction in Him. And I’m a silly, giggly girl.
I’m still going to taunt the Lion. I’m still going to tease and cajole, and giggle.
I think He likes it that way.
He likes *me* that way.