She’s giggling nervously, unsure of her poise. Keen excitement makes her clumsy, tentative. He corrects her with a swipe of knotted-leather baton across her arse. “Focus. Own her. Show her she’s in your power, make your yours. No fucking about.” She shudders, eyes rolling at the glorious stripe of pain; knees weak. I smirk fondly, knowing she loves it, eagerly anticipating the lesson. I’m here and not-here, discussed in the third person, an ornament on the wall; implement for the learning of implements. Fucktoy, slut-puppet, my happy place.
“Look into her eyes. Feel the energy. Control her”. He’s prowling behind her, baton twitching. Her blue-green gaze pins me against the cold chain web at my back. There’s determination in her face, affection, excitement. Arms extended, feet wide; I’m held in place with clips, clamps, collar; a butterfly pinned to the wall, ready to be made use of.
I see the moment when she forgets self-consciousness, when her Dominant energy spills out, reaching to claim me. “Are you ready for the clamps?” she purrs, kneading my nipples tightly between her fingertips, her thigh pressed hard against my cunt. I’m whimpering; it hurts, it’s so good. Am I ready? How much more – or less – painful will the clamps be? I can’t judge, I don’t care. “I don’t know,” I tell her; let her decide. She pinches harder, grinning as my expression twists from eagerness to pain.
When the clamps are on, cold steel biting down on tender flesh – it hurts so much more, I melt, a rush of hotter and wetter and oh yes – he hands her the wand.
Now I’m yelling, wordless sounds of joy and agony and desperate need; fuck, I’m close, so close. Pain and pleasure swirling through me; he leans over her shoulder to pulls at the chain that swings between my clamped nipples, tugging sharply. I scream, she jabs the wand harder against my clit. I shudder, he moves in behind her, pressing the three of close together. My world is all hard pinch and soft curves and rumbling, cunt-clenching kinetics. Pink mist; it might be her face or his shoulder or the backs of my own eyelids; it might be the urgent sense of my not-quite-there-yet need for orgasm or perhaps agony and ecstasy crossing wires in my brain to visualise sensation; colour of exposure, playfulness, inflammation. They let me scream for a while.
“Well done” he tells us both; affirmation for me, approving critique for her. Released from cuffs and clamps, I can’t stand, can’t speak, only smile with all of my face, and gurgle gratitude, joy, adoration.
We take a break for bubbles and chocolate, hugs and confidences. Next up: The Art Of The Belt.