I’ve only once in my life had a flogging. There was I, face-down on the hotel bed, ankles tied wide apart, hands bound above my head, drifting happily into subspace as the soft leather falls bounced off my buttocks in a steady, measured onslaught.
It didn’t hurt enough. I wanted him to use his belt instead. Of course, begging for the belt only resulted in admonitions of “patience, little one” – and no belt.
Today’s the day. After weeks of careful negotiations over DMs and cups of tea, detailed planning – most of which I was not party to by my own request – and shivering anticipation, we three have arrived at the place and time of our assignation.
Oh yes. Oh definitely. I didn’t know this had an actual name until I started this Pervember exercise, but this is certainly a significant one for me.
I’m a good girl, aren’t I? See how hard I work, to bring you joy and make you smile. To cause your groans of pleasure. To taste abandonment and indulgence. I’m on my knees for you; mouth open, eyes wide, beseeching you to use me for your satisfaction. I’m stretched and bound for you, open and willing, offering myself for your delectation. I need your words of appreciation. I crave your lustful gaze. I long for your admiration.
Uhuh. Now we’re back on track. This is something I can write about with enthusiasm, whether fiction or fact.
Tonight she is slave. Not Sarah, wife and mother. Not the pharmaceutical lab tech. Not humblesub69. Just slave.
She kneels in the centre of the studio floorspace, knees spread wide with her weight on her heels. Palms upturned on her thighs and head bowed. Her only adornment is her collar, although she will likely be wearing a variety of accessories this evening. Some of them will hurt.
That’s it. Grab it, a good handful now. Twist it round your fist. Control me. Hurt me.
Hair-pulling is one of those things that I mostly have to indulge in through fantasy more than practice, because there’s too much of a risk that I’ll dislocate, or subluxate or strain something, which would take all the pleasure out of it very quickly.
Another joker! Prompt #10 is ‘Daddy Kink’ and that’s not one that floats my [lone] boat[man] (fnar), so I’m taking another substitution. Maybe one day I’ll be able to write convincingly about things that aren’t in my own kink gallery, but right now I’m having too much fun writing about things that are.
Today’s prompt was “branding” and that’s definitely not one of my kinks (nothing wrong with it between consenting adults of course, just doesn’t do anything for me) so I couldn’t really think of anything to write about it. Instead, I’m playing one of the jokers – something I have always wanted to experience and fantasise about frequently.
Spit-roasting, with its connotations of gluttony and primitivism; myself as nourishment and celebration, as sacrifice and utility.
A choice, perhaps; between the carnal and the alimentary….
CW: this story depicts not-quite-consensual sexual activity.
My orgasms come relatively easily, quickly and in multiples. Because of this, I don’t value them as much as I might – while pleasurable and desirable, they are often commonplace and functional – rarely the Earth-moving fireworks display that fiction has programmed the modern woman to expect – even demand. I’m hopeless at self-denial, only managing once to hold off for any length of time while playing solo – a wholly gratifying experience but one I have not yet had the self-discipline to revisit. I know that if I back off at the last minute enough times, the release when I finally get there is intensified to the near pyrotechnic point I mentioned earlier. I’m just too greedy and impatient to bother.