Waves of Submission

During play time, things come in waves…times of interaction, greeting, choosing outfits, laying out our stuff. Times of touching and hurting and coming. Times of talking. Times of silence. Times of soft, quiet torture, followed by soothing strokes.

So too does my memory come back to me in waves. During our together time, I’m always in the moment with Him. Always aware, thinking I’ll remember EVERYTHING that happened. And then the day progresses, and pain layers upon pain, and lust upon lust. I am both filled, and drained…and can’t think a cogent thought. It takes time for things to trickle down to my conscious memory.  Now, days later,  things come to mind in quick flashes, images of things I saw, impressions of things I felt, hot flashes of hurt, hotter flashes of sex and pain rolled tightly together. I remember toys, and the brush of his beard against my throat. I recall the weight of his body pinning mine, his hands diving under my shirt to attack my tits. His fingers wrapped in my hair as I suck his cock, or pulling me backwards on the bed to be right where he wants me. The sound of his hand hitting my rump, the sharp and staccato beat of it, followed by the searing heat on my skin. So many images, sometimes moving in a flash as I do some mundane task. I pause and see the movie unfolding.

Near the end of our playtime, the heat and the pain and lust all roll together until I’m begging him to hurt me harder, make me cum harder, make me weep with the pain and joy of it. He laughs with a soft, triumphant sound into my ear. “yes, yes, beg me for it. you want the pain. you want it.” His fingers ram into my cunt, jabbing and thrusting and twisting until I feel like he’s going to pull me inside out. I whine “It hurts, Master, hurts so much…” and his voice hums into my ear, “I know, I know it hurts, doesn’t it? That’s when it’s the best, little girl…”

And i explode.

I cum so hard it hurts, his hand leaving my cunt, only to start slapping my clit and pussy so hard the bed is shaking.

He laughs when my next orgasm squirts from me. This is a huge turn on, just writing this, remembering this. But I’m not writing about orgasms tonight, no matter how good they are, how wet and lovely they are.

No, I’m thinking of that first wave of togetherness. When we’re …reacquainting ourselves with one another. When  all is fresh and new, when I’m just getting into the headspace, when I’m letting regular life go and submersing myself into submissive nilla place…that’s a crystal clear memory. My hair is just right, my lipstick bright. My things are laid out, and I’m ready for fun. I forget how much fun hurts at this time. I just remember the floaty part, not the journey there.

I’m dressed in the outfit he chose. I’m in the shoes, on the bed, having been torn between laughter from his fiendish tickling, and pain as he mauls my tits. I’m laying there in the middle of the bed, awash with sensations, already drained, tousled, mussed, tossed around, bruising.

He rises from the bed, moves to the bathroom. I can’t even open my eyes.

“Stay there” he says in the Dom voice.

You know the one, right? There’s the talking voice, there’s the playful voice, and then there’s the Dom Voice.

Stay there.

It’s firm, no nonsense, don’t fuck around tone sends shivers through my bones, raises goose-flesh on my skin, and thrills me. I’m not capable of defying that voice, of playing around and getting up and hiding toys. He’s serious, he means it.

Stay there.

I can’t even think about dozing off, as the words bounce in my head,  echo around my mind. That tone. Gods, how it affects me! I can feel the submission leaking from that hidden corner inside me, the one I didn’t think existed anymore. I’m no longer merely talking about  submission (in a somewhat hopeful way…) I AM a submissive. I shiver, and am put in my place, though I haven’t moved an inch. I am fully, totally his. A slut. No. His slut. A toy. A possession. His toy, his possession. I lay in the bed as he rises. He pauses at the foot of the bed, speaks.

Stay there.

And walks away.  I don’t think. I don’t whine. I obey.

I half-whisper my reply.

yes Sir.

 

Sometimes…

…I forget how much pain really hurts.

I know. It sounds stupid when you say it aloud, doesn’t it?  (If you’re submissive, I’ll bet you dollars to donuts that you “grok”, right?)

We managed to eke out a small face time today…so deeply needed. He was fun and flirty and dirty and mean..and he smelled good, and his arms wound so tight around me, hugging, and then a sweetly tender kiss right there in the parking lot of the place we meet. We chat, and laugh and I try to assault his man nipples, and he gives me the stern look, followed by   “nilla, take your hands off my nips.” You know the Look, right? I think every Dom must have one. It’s the stern “don’t fuck with me, slut” look that makes my hands fall to my sides, and also makes me giggle nervously. Yup, that look. I’ve never quite been brave (foolhardy?) enough to actually disobey him on that, despite my somewhat death-defying desire to try it.

Then, doesn’t He trick me?

He did!

Has me show him how the van doors open automatically…I just never think it through, never suspect a thing. So when he asks me to reach that thing on the floor there, and I lean in, He pushes me hard so I fall over the seat and proceeds to pinch my ass! He hides what he’s doing with his body, pretending to reach in, using his voice…’no, that one, yeah, that one over there, yes, that’s the one nilla’, while his other hand does the dirty work. His legs trap me so I can’t move as he leans on them, as I wriggle and squirm and moan and “eep!” when he hits a particularly vulnerable area.  Not content for one pinch, either, but MANY hard little nips with his fingernails. Great Goddess! I came SO close, yes, about that close, to cumming. There is no better feeling in those moments, then of His hands moving roughly over my body. Even though, you know, it hurts.

Oh MAN, did it hurt. 

He can’t pinch my arms, his favorite target, because it’s sleeveless time at last…so he targets my tits, my belly, and now, in this downside-up position, my vulnerable ass. His fingers press into my crack, finding that oh-s0-tender skin there, then biting into all the areas that I sit upon. Yes, I can’t sit without thinking of His hands on my ass…and grow wet and needy for it.

Of course He found my tits, pinching them hard as I slid into my car when it was time for me to go. That man can do a lot of damage in a very short period of time!

Pain hurts when you haven’t had a lot of it…but damn it is so fucking good, too.

Liminal Time

It was like a breath, held and waiting for exhalation.

That long, long pause as she lay spread, legs raised high, tied to the topmost notch in the tall four-post bed, waiting.

The bite of the clothes pins, the rub of the rough cord that lay against her skin in a long snaking line. The tug of the pins against the tight skin of her ankle was as arousing and painful as the ones that snaked up her inner thighs.

He worked his way up her torso, laying the line, pinching skin. He spoke not a word, intent on his work. She didn’t break the silence or his concentration. Occasionally a sharply in-drawn breath slid from her lips as he tugged her flesh into compliance. The clothespins bit, the rope rasped, and anticipation burned.

Up and over her breasts the line moved under his hands.  Her body ached at each pinchy spot, at each rasp of the line as he worked his way up her body.  Holding here in  liminal time, she tried to not think of what was to come, but to just be, to live in this moment, accepting these small nips of pain.

Looking up at his face, she knew the moment he was done, that her body as his canvas, was complete.

And liminal time unzipped.

 

inspired by THIS post @ Ancient Owner

 

D/s and Real Life

I’m at that point where I can’t quite find the time, nor the energy for writing. I DO have tales to spin, and yet…it’s a dreary day here in the northeast and I find all I really want to do is curl up and read. And not naughty stuff, though I can have an O today (should I be inspired enough to want one. I know…I’m really that sleepy just now!)

What’s new to tell you of?

nada.

zero.

zilch.

Which I know, is the epitome of boring…aka…—

yeah. Snooze-ville.

He was away this weekend past so no face time. My bruises have faded. (Pout) We *might* get some time this weekend upcoming but that’s forever away. And I’m tired. Did I mention that? It’s not subdrop, for I’m not depressed, not at all. I’m quietly happy. There just isn’t a ‘zing’ to energize me. Master is not a Dominant given to tasking me (or not often, anyway).   He mostly gets off on being in the same room and reaping the Dom-benefits of hands on work. He did give me a wee task last week and asked me to send pictures. I went one step further and videoed it which He *loved*.  He was glad that I’d thought to go a step beyond, and send Him something that would be sure to make Him smile (even as it made me wince.). It’s always nice to please the Dom, you know?

Oh, you want to know? About the task?  About the video…well, sorry, you can’t–at least about the pix…as it has too much face in it, so He could see the painful grimaces I made.

However–I’ll share what He had me do, how’s that? Since you asked, and so nicely too! 😀

I had to put on those thick clamps. Do you remember them? They look like this:

clampsThe chain is pretty weighty by itself, but He had me add the clamp in the middle that holds the magnetic weights…and i had to add 3 of the weights. Ouch.

Now, if you’ve been reading here for a long while, you’d perhaps remember that He gave me the clamps long ago, early in our relationship. And I had to wear them whenever I wrote my dirty tales. I won’t go so far as to say that I got “used” to them–but they didn’t kill me either. Back then I wrote every night before bed, sometimes for long periods of time. Obviously I wasn’t to keep them on for hours, lest I damage the poor nilla nips, but it was enough of a sensation to keep me constantly horny, always wet. Back then we also saw each other monthly, which was awesome. These days’ we’re more like an old married couple–the heat is still there, but it’s muted by distance. When we’re together it’s BOOM! and we’re back in heat…but apart, we just sort of roll along.

Anyway.

I had to wear the clamps.

and the weights.

And then I had to lean forward so my tits were hanging free, and smack the weight with the fucking pink hairbrush.

SMACK! JOLT! (swing, swing, swing, moan, groan)

Three times. Each harder than the last.

It was very painful. It was extremely thrilling. It was hawt. It was…really awesome.

😀

I’m such a painslut.

And yanno what else?

It wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I got hungry and horny and lust-filled–and He left me hanging there (literally and metaphorically), having me pack up the toys and put ’em away, and “by the way, nilla–no O”.

I forget the why of it.

And it doesn’t *matter* the why of it.

Doing it, making it happen at His behest—was super-freaking-hot.

(just writing about it made me all hot n bothered again. 😀

But that was a week ago, and since then–well, you know how it goes. Life. He’s busy, I’m busy and I don’t think either of us is in our D/s role. He’d be the first to jump in here and say that He is always in Dom mode–which is true enough. I just don’t get enough time with Him to reap the benefits of it.

Hmm…re-reading that sounds like I’m pouting about it. I’m not, not really. Regretful, to be sure, but (glances over at ironing pile, thinks about the next laundry load, the sick kiddo on the couch in the next room, and the making of lunch and dinner…) you know how we ALL have to walk the line of vanilla and submission.

And I don’t know but perhaps–having such an intense vanilla life–if it doesn’t make those times when there IS submission special. I read of blogs where the day-to-day life of a slave is…hum drum. “Do your chores. Cook dinner. ” etcetera. Hell…that sounds like my vanilla life! As a submissive I *always* want more of His dominance. But I’m not a child at a cookie jar whining for more, more, more (mostly because the person holding the cookie jar away from my begging hand is not my Master, but myself {and wouldn’t Freud have a field day with that image?! LOL!})

Part of submission in my world is acceptance. I knew when I took that leap off the cliff that it would never be my full-time thing. I have a vanilla life that is precious and good. The fact that I wanted more…wanted something darker, meaner, rougher doesn’t preclude my responsibilities to that other life. And believe me, I struggled with that idea. For years. I wanted dominance full-time. I almost left my family. I wanted it so bad. But –I guess I grew up, with His help. I couldn’t leave my kids. I just couldn’t. I could not justify wanting to be spanked/fucked/beaten (aka my desires) versus fucking up their little lives. I’m not one of those who was in a dire situation and needed to get out and make a new start. And I’m not a person who will say “I gotta find my own bliss, sorry peeps, I’m outta here…” It is just not in me to do that.

Learning to be moderate about my D/s doesn’t quell the needs. Not by a long shot. But thankfully I’ve got a Master who understands both sides of my life, and who has His own busy life. And while I know He cares deeply for me, He is not looking for a full-time sub/slut. What we have here works for us. And yeah, it’s not exciting 98% of the time.

But that 2%?

Oh yeah. I love that time.

 

 

Catching my Breath

It’s been  a hectic two weeks since Master and I played. It’s amazing the things that float to the surface even now. Little things, some big things. I remember (now) that He’d forgotten Sir Wolf’s bag of wicked whips (aaawww…*giggle*). It didn’t matter–He was wielding my infamous pink hairbrush as well as one HE has that is for grooming pets…it has wire teeth. He uses it by slapping some portion of my anatomy with some implement, then “scrubbing the welt down”. (insert eyeroll here)

I know. It’s wicked mean, isn’t it?

There was the fist-grab of hair when He kissed me, pinching my arm wickedly. His big hands grabbing my tits and holding me on my toes as I whimper. My shirt half off, and His teeth biting along my shoulder before He slaps my ass, encouraging me to get changed into the sexy stuff.

He popped me a good one on my ass as I’m trying to get dressed. (This after He’d messed me up proper before I even got out of my vanilla stuff.) And another while I’m trying to put on my lipstick. That one got a chuckle out of Him…He’s harassing me with slaps and pinches and saying “hurry up, nilla” and “you’ll never get that on before I–”

and I interrupt Him and throw a dirty look over my shoulder.

“Master.” (I was a tad indignant.) “I’m a girl. I can put lipstick on in a car going 65 miles per hour on a four lane highway, driving with one hand.” (please note I’m not *advocating* doing this! It’s not SAFE (but if you’re a person who wears make-up, you grok!)

He pauses a moment and says “Oh. Right. Forgot about that.”

And without missing a beat, He pops me again. (Not a smudge, peeps, not a smear. Perfect red lips. *buffs nails on chest*)

So those are the little vignettes that are floating to the surface now. We’ve had some face time this weekend past–it’s always nice to have that after a playdate, a check in, which we both need. Afterwards, when we talked Monday evening, He said “It was good to see you on Sunday, nilla.”

(He never says anything like that; it was wicked awesome!)

We’re happy, and talking about our next playtime later in the fall. I will juggle my schedule to make that work. We talked too about pushing the envelope on my behavior. I love to do that.

“I think, nilla,” He says as we talked Monday evening, “that I may wait even longer before I blow on you. See what naughty little things you think you can get away with when you think I’m out of the room.”

Well, that set me back a bit.

“You–you–why, that’s horrible, Master!”

He laughs. We talk some more about how He stalks around me (and I’m oblivious). How He waits, and watches for my little smirky smile to appear. That’s when, in prior play times, He has done the poke, or blow in my ear thing that makes me jump a mile because I think He’s left the room. (He even leaves the water running in the bathroom sink so I think He’s still in there.)

His thought is to stand there, waiting and watching for me be naughty. It is sadism at its best, perhaps. (I love the anticipation, the idea of Him catching me being “bad” (not, mind you, disobedient. If He says “stay” in the Dom voice–I know He fully means it. He leaves room for my mischief, which we BOTH enjoy.) Sometimes I rub my pussy with the hand furthest from the bathroom, to get a little relief (I never, ever cum without Him allowing it while I’m on the wall, however!) Or I might step away from the wall that He’s put me on, or drop my hands, or wiggle my butt, or any of those sort of things. I’m sure He’s seen some of them. (Boy did I get a wicked smack the time He caught me rubbing my pussy last year, as well as a “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”)

There’s a curious thrill there. Pushing His buttons is dangerous. I’m never sure where the point is that I’ll cross His line in the sand and get nailed for it. I’m never sure where He even IS in the fucking room. Is He right behind me getting His jollies over making me jolt and jump with shock when He blows on my ear or cheek? Or is He really in the bathroom this time?

It’s all part of the thrill. I was going to say game, but it’s not a game is it? It’s fantasy and reality. It’s pain and passion. It’s a thrill ride and a reality check.  It’s fucking awesome, and awesomely painful.

 

 

The Taunting of Pain (or How to Entice a Painslut)

We talked about how long it’s been.

It’s been a long long time.

And He is very sure that He’s going to be ramping up Master’s Pain Delivery System…”Toy’s you haven’t seen in a long while, slut.”

I don’t answer. My mind flashes to all these overlapping images of His naughty black toy bag (I should start calling Him Doctor Pain, really–it’s one of those kinds of bags.). It sits on the bed at our meets. Sometimes I am bid to sit or lie on the bed, already semi-blotto from pain/orgasm overload/tickling. Sometimes I’m on the Wall and can only hear the various sounds of the toys as He removes them, one by one, and lays them all out on the spare bed. A clink. A rattle. A soft hissing sound. The purr of a vibe. The cracking swish of thin wood kissing the air.

It’s enticing.

Until.

“Time for that Special Bag to reappear, nilla. It’s been a long, long time…”

I don’t answer right away. My head turns over His inventory, yet I’m not remembering any special bag.

“uhm….what “special bag” are you referring to Master?” I ask, hesitant and nervous. This is about the time I feel the teeth of the trap grab me up and hold me tight…

“You know the one!” His voice is filled with sadistic glee.

“Uhm….to be sure, M, I don’t.”

“The special bag.”

“Master….” I start, but He walks over my protestation.

“From your friend.”

Uh oh. I DO know this bag. He must be joking. I hate that bag. I do I do I do (then why are you so wet, girl, says the other side of my brain, the painslut who is giggling with glee)

“Oh uhm…Master, that’s not my favorite ….”

Once more he cuts me off.

“The whips and floggers need some time, nilla. They’ve been in that bag a long time and need to taste your flesh.”

I hear the hunger in His voice, the joy and glee.

I feel the hunger for that pain inside, (that nasty little cunt is all but rubbing herself in glee)…but there’s that fear factor too…what if I can’t…

(of COURSE you can, says the painslut. You want it, crave it, need it. Life has been dull and gray without it, and suddenly look! Colors! Blue and green and joybliss…HE gives us that, with those slick promises…)

And she’s right.

I need it, crave it, want it.

But I’m still a wee nervous too. (those toys hurt like fuck-all!)

(yes, I know it’s supposed to hurt.)

I like the bliss…it’s just the getting there that has me a feeling a wee bit of trepidation.

(and danged if that doesn’t make me even wetter!)

IMG_0962

HNT- Bruised Memories

I’d asked for it specifically. Pleassssssse Master, please work my tits over, hard. Don’t spare me…I…need it.

I begged for a week or more before our meeting…and this is what came of it.

It’s a fond memory, one of pain and attention (oh when His focus finds a target,–it comes full-on) and weeks of bruises. A blessing and a curse to remember this so well…
S30A08031

Leftie ~ HNT

I’ve been mulling over this…this freaky thing we do…questioning my needs. And then realized I don’t need to justify anything.  Just like I have bright blue eyes, I am kinky. Just like I like chocolate, I like to be beaten. Just as I am…is fine. I’m not hurting anyone. Well, okay, myself, but in a postive way. It feeds me. I am so “clean” inside now. Not stressing, not fretful.

Calm.

I wouldn’t trade that feeling for all the tea in China.

So, navel-gazing done, I decided to show a wee bit of His handiwork in granting my plea to “please cane my tits hard”.

Happy HNT!

Leftie

The Countdown Begins

Dateline: Thanksgiving evening

The house is cleaned up, the dishes are washed, pies and other foodstuffs have been divvied up. Things are back in their proper places and the house is poised for the sounds of young children to begin the exuberant task of “decking the halls”. I am happily weary as this day of Thanksgiving winds down. Truly this was one of the best days, ever.

Yet lurking in the back corners of my mind, the sound of a clock ticking down.

This brings a quick smile to my lips, a faint tingle to my pussy, a quick indrawn breath as the words boing around inside my head.

Date with Master.

Date with Master.

Date with Master.

Oh, did you feel that? A shiver. Quick, lightning quick it was.  The thought that dances in and out of my head–Big Red.

Kinda like poking your tongue into a cavity. NO! OUch! Don’t…but inevitably, that pokey tongue heads back there…and back there…and back there.

Big Fucking Red. *shiver*

And all these other, associative thoughts:

Pain.

Helplessness.

Blindfolded.

Caned.

Fucked brainless.

New shoes.

So many intertwined thoughts. Feelings. Needs. Desires pushing themselves to the forefront of my brain. “Pick me! Pick me! I’m your biggest need. No I am!” I tell you it’s like a frigging chorus.

And wrapped through it all, a thin but present ribbon, is fear.

Freaky, eh? I’m not “afraid” of Him. I trust Him implicitly. He holds my life in His hands, so…ya. I do trust Him to not harm me. To not push beyond the boundaries of reasonability. (whatever the fuck that means!)  But fear of the pain, mostly. Not Him inflicting it.

Nope.

It’s fear of my receiving it. Of “handling it” appropriately. Not being a wuss. Or a weenie (I’m not, just for the record!).  Of being there and what rational, clear-thinking woman goes into a room with a man who is going to beat the snot out of her?

Well. Dammit.

This kind of woman. (points to self)

And this whole discussion is weird. Coz yanno…it just is. And some of it..most of it, perhaps ALL of it when you come down to it, is because it’s been MONTHS since our last playtime.

That’s IT!

I’m out of “pain practice”!!

Because really? You all know I’m a painslut. I like to be hurt. More—I need to be hurt. I need it sexually, I need it mentally. It breaks down my barriers, gives me release (again, sexually and mentally) and it makes me…i dunno…clean I guess. Maybe clean isn’t all of it either. Empty. He empties me of pent-up drek, and leaves me tethered back on terra firma, drained of all the bullshit that life throws at me and I store up like a hoarder of all things bullshit.

🙂

(that’s a pretty good analogy but it makes me laugh, too. A hoarder of all things bullshit…that’s a good one!)

His beatings release that in me. There are some tears…not many. I LOATHE that kind of crying (but I’m so sentimental/emo that I’ll cry when I read things on Facebook or some commercials on tv, or something tender my kids say–but those are different tears). Mostly I grunt, groan, moan…and *blush*…call my Master a mean Asshole/Bastard/Fucking Asshole. 🙂 (it makes Him laugh)

And when the release is occurring, as the gasps and moans are clearing my drek, there comes another epiphanal moment.

Subspace.

Subspace is pretty fuckin’ awesome too! Well worth the price of admission. Flying. Soaring. The feeling of being full of power–and utterly powerless.

And alive–so fucking, amazingly, alive.

Buuuuuut….between here and there. That’s the sticking point, isn’t it?  (for all of us, likely, right?)

It’s the getting there that brings those nerves to the fore. I *like* pain…but it also ….welllllll… it hurts, dammit! One must get through those first few blows, start to ride the adrenaline, the endorphins before all the good stuff kicks in. Once I’m over that first sharp smack, I’m good. I might fight or tense up for the next one, or the next…chanting “relax, breathe” through each blow…but eventually there is a total unclenching. The pain is there, oh hell yes. But suddenly it’s manageable and rideable and oh yes yesyesyes I’m frigging flying.

His words resonate in my head.

“This will be the most painful playdate you’ve ever experienced.”

There’s been a few tough ones, to be sure. Good tough. The last playdate was almost all pleasure. I loved it, who doesn’t like an overload of pleasure, right? But I craved (missed) the pain too. He was recovering from an injury and gave me what He could.

But I wanted more.

See?

Craven whore that I am, I wanted to be beat to a pulp. I wanted to be savaged, bitten, hit, marked, used. There have been playdates in the past where the following week is a dead-blur to me, all I can do is get up out of bed and move through my day as best as possible.

And I like it.

You know, I’ll take whatever Master-time I can get. I’ll take whatever He gives me. I want it, need it, crave it. He’s created this need in me, fostered it, developed it, whetted my appetite for it. But there is no script, no playbook. Our time together flows from one whim of His to the next.

Will He use the brush, the cane, my shoe? No way to know. Only the sharp smack of some implement on my flesh, my yelp, the sudden spark and heat of that impact on my skin. When the time comes for us to part, for me to open that door, to leave Him, it is with regret that it is over. How could it be over? The time goes so quickly, when the countdown to a meeting goes so slowly. Not fair.

So, for now I plan to savor the moments between now and then, to be happy and accepting and fun and giggly and…His.

Sweet Sexy Anticipation

I’m feeling it…that burgeoning of desire that I’ve held in stasis, tight within a chrysalis. It’s hung there, deep inside me, waiting. Slowly growing, sometimes the pressure to burst free just this side of manageable.

I’ve not talked about it overmuch. I’ve spent time here with you, chatting about my hair issues, the little bits of face time we’ve carved out, all the while slowly going mad with desire for this Master of mine. Yes, yes, I know, I’m “His” property, but trust me on this, He is every bit mine as well. And I’ve craved Him, like I used to crave cake with thick frosting. I crave His touch, His attention, the alive feeling He engenders. I long for the smell of His body to rub into my skin, the rough edges of His man body grating against my softer shapes.

I crave, too, the pain. I fear it, I long for it. I want it so much that it’s an ache in my cells.

And somewhere, deep within one of those ‘compartments’ that men seem to be born with, is a matching desire in Master, for me. It’s –humbling– to be the object of desire. He wants to touch me. He wants to make me moan, and whimper. He wants to make me mewl with pain–and pleasure.

He wants to make me cum. (Like a NY harbor fireboat, He says!)

He wants to mark me.

Already He teases me about the fucking pink hairbrush. You know the one…I’ve teased Him about it off and on. I really, really hate that fucking thing…cheeky

It stings…

no…

….it’s way, WAY beyond mere “stingy”…

This fucker packs a whap..a whallop…that steals my breath. It is almost beyond ‘pain’…it covers a wide area of skin and makes me feel….

I can leave it at that, I think. It hurts. It makes me cry, every time. And yet it makes me feel.

Alive.

Glowing with the pain. Getting to the glow is a hard passage. But it makes me fly. Out into the stratosphere, way above the clouds, yet held here on Earth by His implacable voice, the steady thunk of a toy on my skin, or the gentle touch as His hand caresses the welt.

Then there’s that seeking finger, as I sniff my tears back. It probes between my thighs, sliding into my slit, feeling the heat there.

And the wet.

So much wet.

It’s true. Pain turns me on. Pain revvs up my sensual beast. It is the key that unlocks the fucking greedy needy whore inside. Getting there sure isn’t easy, but it is the road I’d rather travel with Him than anyone else.

He’s sent me texts about the hairbrush. About the pleasure and joy it brings to Him, in large part, He reminds me, because  I stupidly gifted it to Him. It wasn’t *meant* to be a gift, mind you. It was a huge relief to finally find a brush that could handle the massive “master hair mess” that I got after every meet. He absolutely destroys my careful coif, mussing me up so that I look like I styled it with a blender. I’ve gone through multiple brushes, combs, what have you. Finding the paddle brush was a dream come true! It whipped through the worst tangles in moments…

I was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Look what I found Master! Isn’t it neat?” I  held up the gleaming pink monster, innocently unaware of what was about to transpire.

Apparently He had never really listened to my complaints about my tangled tresses and how long they took to comb out before I went home. But His eyes lit up when I showed Him that fucking brush. It has a squishy handle. He slipped it out of my hand, flipping it around in His palm.

And it was only *then* that I realized exactly what I’d done. I’d just delivered a weapon of ass destruction to a sadist. Seriously, stupidly, the thought that He could/would/might use this on my ass?

Never occurred to me.

Hey, I have these blonde moments from time to time. I was born blonde you know.

“Turn over,” He says, clenching the squishy handle. “I like this.”

I don’t remember what happened next.

What?

You don’t believe me?

Okay, okay.

It’s indelibly scribed on my brain. He hit me with it.

Right on my ass.

And laughed.

He was so fucking delighted. I am now the official caretaker of the pink brush. Nothing can happen to it. It sits on my dresser where I see it every day.

Every day.

And I remember the kiss of that fucker, like a viper on my skin. My tits, my ass, arms, legs, belly…no area is “safe” from the thing.

I sent him a text on Tuesday, told Him the brush had hopped a train.

He ignored me.

Later, He sent me a  sweet and sadistic text about using it on me. A text that made my toes curl with dread and longing…and made my pussy swell and dampen.

Damn He knows exactly how to prime my pump.