This week I’ve been flooded with memories of my last playtime with Him in January. It at once seems like yesterday, and ages ago. After I wrote out my thoughts on why BDSM is so attractive to me, I went to bed. I got snuggly under the covers when it came to me, unbidden. It was then that I remembered one of the most intimately erotic parts of our playtime.
You see, He always gives me time to dress. We play a bit, Him pinching or tickling or kissing or spanking me–whatever unfolds just happens. There is no plan, no agenda, it’s what He wants to do any and all times.
This time, I wanted to make sure we had tons of time to play, so while He was putting His bags down, I scurried into the bathroom to prepare. I had my shirt off and was just getting ready to drop trou when the door flies open and He’s there, filling the small space. He’s not a huge man, but His presence is just overwhelming. Before I can say anything, move a muscle, He’s on me.
dear gods, just starting to write the memory and my pussy is throbbing
There’s a full length mirror on the wall. Suddenly, I’m mashed against it, my face looking right at my own stunned reflection there. My eyes are full of shock. Then I look over my head to see His reflection, watching me. His hands are full of my flesh…He is pinching me so hard, and my eyes close and I’m yelping and hurting and turned on and embarrassed.
When I open my eyes again, I see Him watching me, watching Him. The intimacy of this moment is etched forever on my brain. He’s reading me, soaking Himself in the immediacy of my hurting. He looks at me looking at His hands on me, those big and strong hands, grabbing my tits, pinching my nipples, twisting them hard, then sliding up to pinch the flesh on the underside of my arm. It hurts, a burning agony that makes me rise to my toes and try to get away.
There is no “away” when one is smushed against the wall, no “away” from the emotions and pain and bliss when one must confront oneself in the mirror while being tormented.
“B-b-ut…” I gasp as I look into His smiling face.
His head cocks to the side, silently asking the question.
“The b-b-bathroom….” I gasp as He pinches at my hip, then slides His hand into my jeans. He’s rubbing at my clit and I think I will die from the pleasure, even as His other hand continues to maul my flesh.
“….is my safe zone…” It comes out in a rush, quickly followed up by small mews of pain as that hand slides out of my pants, and returns to torturing me. He laughs into the back of my neck, His breath hot.
I’m on fire with pain now, my arms, hips, sides, tits all throbbing and burning from the wickedness of His grasp. When I try to get an arm free, He grabs it, pulling it over my head and behind me, holding me tightly. His hands are living vises. I’ll admit I’m not the strongest gal in the world, but my gawd! I look in the mirror, seeing His face, full of glee. I see my arm, bent awkwardly up over my head, my elbow pointed to the ceiling, while His hand grabs a chunk of flesh and pinches. There are already bruises blooming along the pale line of my arm, not tiny little ones, but ones bigger than a cell phone, small fireworks of color and pain exploded inside my flesh.
“Safe zone?” He says after containing me. “Safe zone?”
His tone is incredulous.
“Nilla, you know better. You’re in a room. Alone. With Me. There is no safe zone.”
I melt into a puddle of goo.