I acquired quite a few gorgeous bruises last week at Kinkfest, but the most intriguing is this one. I don’t remember exactly how it occurred but it’s been there smiling at me whenever I’ve taken my clothes off in the intervening days so I’ve grown quite fond of it.
In extreme closeup, you can see patterns on my skin which are actually each tiny little stretch marks – my skin is very stretchy but doesn’t heal well. There’s a lot of contrasts here – damage resulting from my genetic condition vs damage I explicitly asked for and enjoyed receiving; pale threads of scarring vs the livid contusion; that it’s on my inner thigh but seen out of context, looks a bit like a nipple….I guess it’s a symbol of my sexuality as a person with a disability – although it imposes limitations on my energy and my physical capabilities, I’m still a kinky submissive painslut who absolutely loves a really hard fucking.
The note He left me gave clear instructions in His spiky drunken-spider handwriting
Take off your clothes. Insert the earbuds Put on the hood. Present yourself and wait for me. Keep absolutely still at all times. If you move, you will be punished.
The hood! Our newest acquisition, an intimidating contraption of firm black leather and cold silvery buckles; it watches me from the table with a sightless gaze, promising darkness, silence, anticipation. I know what it’s for. I just don’t know what it’ll be like.
Once naked, I pick up the earphones. They’re an expensive set of Bluetooth buds, powered up and ready but silent. Once they are fitted inside my ears, the world goes silent. I can hear my own breathing, detect the slight quickening of my heartbeat. Will it be music? White noise? I hope not.
I pick up the hood. It’s heavy and stiff, as new leather should be. I pull it on, glad that we chose one with both nose and mouth holes. An almost-claustrophibic sense of enclosure starts to creep up my spine; but I can run my tongue out and feel the air outside the hood, reach up and touch the contours of the leather with my hands. I haven’t ceased to exist; I’m not trapped in limbo. It’s just a hood.
I go to work on the buckles.
With no sight, no hearing, held static in my kneeling position by the command of my Master, time ceases to pass. How long have I been wearing the hood? It could be three minutes or thirty or any length in between. Probably not thirty though, because knowing myself as I do; there’s no way I’d manage to stay awake sitting still that long.
Is He here? Has He been standing, watching me with a sardonic smile, enjoying my stillness and my silence, relishing the power of the unseen observer? Or am I alone, tilting my head in question at the empty air? I have no way of knowing but I like to think He’s close, reaching out almost to touch me, His eyes intent. My cunt twitches at the thought.
Warm breath on my neck. I jump, heart pounding, breath catching in surprise and excitement. He’s here! Right behind me!
A hand grips my throat. Too late, I recall the admonition not to move, the threat that accompanied it. The hand moves up to grip my jaw, turning my head from side to side. That’s all the warning I get before-
-the sound of His palm hitting the inside of my leg is almost as much of a shock as the pain painting a fiery handprint on my skin. I gasp but stay as motionless as I can. Perhaps the tiniest flinch escapes, but either He fails to notice it, or (more likely) He chooses to overlook it. If I could see His face, I’d know which; that telltale smirk might be tugging at the corner of His lips. Or it might not. I have no way to know, in here.
He trails His fingers lightly over the skin of my shoulders, down my shoulder blades.
I catch myself just in time; I must not move. I cannot see or hear, movement is instinctive but futile. I am patient, I tell myself. I am a good girl.
Soft brush against my left nipple. Not the warm yielding pad of a fingertip; this is a lighter and tickling touch. Feathers, perhaps I guess or soft tassels. I picture His hand close to my breast poised with the feather, yes definitely a feather and feel the tightening of my nipples as they harden into questing nubs, reaching out eagerly for His whisper-soft touch.
Sudden diamond-chill licks my clit and vanishes. This time, I‘ve stiffened and jerked away before I can remind myself of my instructions. This is deliciously, deviously unfair – and also exactly what we both like. He will tease and titillate me in exactly the ways I cannot help but respond to; then punish me for reacting. The more He provokes me, the more intense my responses, the more pain I can expect.
I hang in a void for endless seconds. Is there a cane poised above my leg or my breast, waiting to sear sharp lines across my skin? A finger and thumb inching their pliers towards the tender back of my upper arm? Shit, where did that ice cube go?
Has He left?
A second before His hard cock nudges my lips, I smell His musk and sense His heat in front of me. I open my mouth as wide as the hood allows – I love sucking His cock – and hold my stomach rigid against the gag reflex when the head presses against the back of my throat.
He fucks my mouth hard, fast, roughly; this is evidently my punishment for reacting to the ice on my clit. I moan my excitement, my dark and perverted libido climbing the ladder upward from the black depths of my heart, spilling drool from my mouth and juices from my cunt in equal measure.
He thrusts deeper, pressing the hood into His stomach and His cock down my throat. The air holes are blocked. I can’t breathe. I’m choking.
I tap out. Our ‘Amber’ safecue, two firm pats of my hand. Released, I sprawl back onto my heels, choking and heaving, shuddering. He grasps my hand and I squeeze twice, telling Him I’m fine, I’m happy, I just needed to pause for a moment.
More. I want more
I give him the thumbs-up and He hauls me up onto my knees again.
Oh god, yes. Please.
Something cool and slippery sweeps across the back of my neck. I stiffen and do not move. Satin? Silk? Before I have time to decide, He cups my breasts, leans in to kiss my shoulders. His touch is tender, reverent and warming. In that moment, there is a connection between us that seems almost tangible, a line drawn in electricity arcing between our bodies, linking our minds, fuelling our lust.
With splayed fingers, Master pushes my knees apart so that my cunt is exposed.
I know he’s still there.
There is no void this time, there is only my body, my breath, the hard floor beneath me. My cunt is dripping, sending hot trails along the inside of my thighs.
I’m half-aching for His touch, half-shrinking from the notion that my sadist Master is probably right now preparing His next move. An escalation, naturally. I acknowledge to myself with an invisible grin just how eagerly I’m contemplating that prospect. As the rumbling wand is jammed against my clit, I steel myself to hold still as long as I possibly can. It’s going to be a battle I’ll lose again eventually – and that’s ok with me. I hope He’ll let me come at least once before I do.
Submission is not masochism, although you know she becomes aroused by pain, you’ve seen and heard how she shudders and gasps at the sting of the paddle. You’ve twisted her nipples and felt her response in the flood of wetness from her cunt. You’ve held her throat while driving yourself hard and fast into her, watching her eyes glaze with pleasure, feeling her tighten and spasm around you. It’s pain as physical pleasure, sure – but it’s more than that. It’s tangible surrender, the marks you leave are badges of her trust in you, symbols of faith and belief.
She wants her wrists tied, cuffed, pinned while you’re inside her – not because she’s averse to holding you (she loves the touch of your skin) – but because the more tightly bound her body is, the more openly she can offer you her mind and soul. There is freedom from fear in yielding to your restraints, release from anxiety in abdicating to authority.
Use her body for your pleasure, your lust is her desire. Her orgasms are yours to distribute or withhold. Left to her own devices, she’ll exhaust herself chasing that need which starts in her cunt but finishes in her heart; keep her for yourself, allow her fulfilment only at your command and you will gift her a satisfaction she cannot find on her own.
When you both lie back, spent and replete – that is when she is at her most vulnerable. How can she show you her devotion, once physical desire has been sated? She would kneel and thank you, fetch you water, bring your clothes if you’d just command. This is no imposition, it is her choice and her affirmation. She wants to demonstrate how happy you’ve made her; your exercise of control is her ritual of peace and renewal.
She has her own opinions, her own strength, her own mind and they are in agreement on this.
The warm weather today got me thinking about how nice a cool shower would be….and then my mind turned to kinkier ideas….with the result that I spent quite a while imagining this scenario then decorating myself with pegs and clamps before giving myself an intense pain-enhanced orgasm.
Today was hot. After a day in London, you’re sticky and grimy; sweat was rolling down your back on the Victoria line and edging into the crack of your arse with a maddening tickling touch. Your hair is damp at the nape of your neck, your face is shiny with the effort of walking home from the bus stop. All you want is a cool shower and a long drink. Preferably something involving large amounts of gin.
Your phone vibrates. Instructions received.
For a moment, you feel rebellious – but the flare of resentment is pushed aside by the wakening thrill of anticipation. What will be this evening’s task?
Take off your clothes when you get in. Close your eyes and wait for me at the front door.
Inside the house, you cast aside your handbag and gratefully peel off your workwear. The house is cool and the sweat of exertion dries quickly, lowering your temperature and raising goosepimples with the contrast. You close your eyes, standing still and careful not to slouch. The posture training was arduous but effective. You can almost feel the bite of the cane across your buttocks and thighs every time you catch yourself slumping.
Footsteps. Breathing. A hand strokes your hair, follows the line of your jaw and your throat.
“Hello, my little slut”
The hand brushes your breast until His fingers find your nipple. Pinches, hard enough to make you gasp.
You can’t see Him, but you know He’ll be smiling.
“Tell me who you are”.
You respond as He trained you, eager and adoring. “I’m your slut, Sir”
“Good girl. Now come with me, and don’t say a word.”
He takes your wrists, ties them together and uses the rope to lead you slowly up the stairs and into the bathroom. Once inside, He pushes you to your knees and ties the end of the rope to the towel rail so that your arms are raised over your head.
Your stomach is fluttering, halfway between fear and desire. You know He’s going to hurt you. You want Him to hurt you. You want it so much, your cunt is already slick and your cheeks flushed.
“No peeking now” He chuckles as he slips a satin mask over your eyes.
The deep, dull pinch of the first clothes peg on the sensitive skin of your breast makes you bite your lip. He adds more, one by one, until they bristle from both your breasts. You’ve lost count, is it twelve? fourteen? With each pinch, you’re calculating how much more it will hurt coming off again. A lot.
“Just one more” He reassures you.
Then attaches it to your lower lip. Steps back to admire his handiwork. “Very nice. Good girl. Oh wait – I almost forgot…..” He spreads your thighs wide and reaches between them to stroke your swollen clit before sliding the clip into place. “Perfect. What a beautiful little slut you are”
You hear the click of His camera phone. Suddenly your arms are free and the blood rushes back into them. You know better than to rub them or move without permission. He grabs a handful of your hair.
Still holding you by the hair, He pushes you into the shower and turns the water on. Cold water. You can’t help it, you scream and struggle. With His other hand, He smacks your buttocks hard – five, six times until you get yourself under control and stand still, gritting your teeth against the cold and the hundreds of tiny droplet impacts on the pegs. He shoves you forward and places your hands against the wall beneath the shower head.
He spreads your buttocks and plunges His sturdy cock into your wet, willing cunt. As you gasp and splutter under the deluge of cold water, He fucks you without mercy; slamming into you so hard the pegs on your breasts shake and rattle. Head held back by the hair as He uses you, hands against the wall, cold water raining down on you, tapping your clamped clit, the pain is so achingly fucking sweet, so gorgeously kinky, so deliciously overpowering.
His breathing changes – faster and shallower; you know He’s approaching His orgasm. You know what He’s going to do and your cunt clenches in anticipation. As He tips over the edge, He sinks His teeth into your shoulder and reaches around to sweep the pegs from your breasts, your lip, and the clamp from your clit. The pain is breathtaking; fire and scorpion venom flooding your nerves and searing your brain. Pegs clatter to the floor as you scream and buck hard against His spasming cock. You can’t breathe through the cascading water, you can’t move from His tightly-pinioning arms, you can’t see or think or speak; you’re riding the endorphin high deep into subspace.
He turns off the water, pulls off the mask and wraps you gently in a big fluffly towel. Pats you dry and holds you close until you start to drift downwards back to Him. He kisses you lovingly.
“Well done” He whispers. “Good girl”. All the words you want and need to hear from Him. You can’t feel the pain any more, only warmth and love and pride. You are His.