I came into the dark bedroom to get ready for bed and was shocked when the door slammed… and then I was slammed into the armoire. I wasn’t alarmed, even though I was taken surprised, as I knew it was my lover’s body pressing hard against the back of mine. Hands came around and gripped my breasts, my own startled breathing sounded nothing like his breath so intimately and yet somehow threatening in my ear – or perhaps that was my own thundering heartbeat not quite able to make sense of the whirling thoughts still creating a flight or fight sensation?
Within this cyclonic confusion, with nipples being pinched through clothing and arms like vices keeping our bodies together, he propelled me to the end of the bed. He didn’t stop there, as the purposefully hands now forcefully went to my upper back and shoved me to bend over. Pants were yanked down, my ankles kicked open, fingers rammed into my wet depths to where the remaining fingers and palm felt like a fist against my lips, as my shirt was pulled up and over, my bra unfastened after a hiccup with a front clasp that slows him down slightly (he’s amazing at a back closure for some reason). His animated hands were everywhere, demanding, they created a tailspin of movement that created an unsettled feeling – perfect for a headspace that left no discerning but his wants. I was far more enthralled by his rough fingers, empty thoughts drifted like feathers where all my nerve endings settled between my legs and collected in his palm.
Hair pulled back once I was undressed, manipulated the rest of my body to where I was twisted around and forced onto sinking and grateful knees. I breathed in his scent through the gym shorts inches in front of my face and smelled his intoxicating desire. My hands now had their own turn to pull down clothing, though far less vigorously, and with his hair guidance system and my eager mouth wide open, the head of his penis was devoured until he hit the back of my throat, then withdrew only to be sucked back in. He used my mouth as if it was his personal toy and the uncaring nature of being used for his delectation increased my own wantonness. As the head hit the back of my mouth and made me salivate and coat his shaft, the feeling was echoed throughout my core and my own thighs were drenched.
It isn’t often he uses me in this way and it was heady that is his own lust and will were demanded in such a way. It was deeply visceral.
Ravenous for his taste, the feeling of the ridges dancing along my tongue, he denied me that greed after a few minutes. Pulled up by hair and again pushed onto the bed, this time with persuasive hands gripping pliable thighs he capapulted me towards the center of the bed. I crumbled among the sheets, rolled over to see the assault of his following body. He entered me effortlessly, the initial resistance of my entrance barely a obstacle as he planted the full length of himself in my body and claimed me his. Yet, there were more parts to claim apparently as fingers advanced in my mouth and embodied his cock – in and out with the same dizzying pace, tiny taste buds and nerve endings felt the sliding imprint of knuckles and ridges and veins. Even his mouth dipped at some points and teeth caught and tugged a nipple to full attention.
He withdrew, but not to stop the onslaught, more strategically to roll me over and continue his onslaught of my senses.
Did I scream? I’m unsure, yet I was aware of the vibration in his hand as it was placed over my mouth. My breath, hot, damp, precious in his grasp, my sounds muffled and yet clamoring in vibrant colors in my brain to distraction. His fingers again became pervasive, hooked in my mouth; I was so thoroughly caught in relentless orgasms. He moved his hands to grip my hips, held me up as he thrusted down. His own grunts and groans signaled a release to the maddening pace that my brain could not keep up with and my body didn’t want to.
As he stilled, I opened my eyes and still saw the pitch black of the room, a comforting cocoon of calmness amid the rampant kaleidoscope of our passion.
He rolled onto his back and pulled me into the crook of his arm, his fingers softly brushing my back. When our breathing calmed deep and regular, our heartbeats slowed lower than frenzied, as endorphins and adrenaline stopped flooding our senses, he tucked me in between the sheets, pushed a sip of water between my lips, and kissed me to sleep.
It began with laying in the middle of the bed, putting on a blindfold. The vast majority of our scenes begin with such a start.
I was caned on the thighs and butt for much longer than normal, rhythmic to the songs to help lull a quiet mind as it is hypnotic. His fists were next; there is something about knuckles sinking deep into muscles that feels amazing even as it hurts. Punched primarily on thighs, my body jerked with the impact, pressed more fully into the bed. Next, he instructed me to roll over so he could cane nipples – not something that we’ve done much of. The front side of my body was warm from being against the mattress, my backside heated from sting and impact; perhaps it was the warmth that allowed my nipples to handle it much better than I would have imagined. The stinging rod came down and set the already sensitive nubs further alive, more responsive, created a triangle of sensation from nipple to tense low and make me wet.
Rope was sensually strung and rubbed over skin: the inside of my wrists, thighs parted to welcome the twisted fibers, between lips where those same fibers felt rougher amid such sensitivity, breasts and of course the overly receptive nipples. He was unhurried, deliberate in the trail that the rope would follow, created paths that awakened my entire body to touch – not just the more focused upon areas. As wrists were tied, he directed whichever attached hand to grip his cock, and wrapped the rope while receiving treatment from my palm and fingers. I felt his desire growing, a brief interruption as one hand was tied up before the other hand was guided to continue such explorations.
Legs were folded ankle to back of thigh, pressed painfully together tightly in rope, before pulled wide apart at the knees and tied where I felt exposed. The room fan more fully showcased how parted my lips were as the breeze in the room touched wet pink places. A Doxy wand was tied in and barred the breeze’s access between my thighs, pressed at my entrance, began on a low rumble. Eventually, he slowly increased speed as he played with my body with caressing fingertips and his gifted mouth.
“How many orgasms?”
I was unsure, took a guess of three.
“Not enough.” He pressed the wand even harder against my wetness, increased the vibrations until I felt far too overstimulated, thighs tensed and made the rope more painful around. He replaced the scream in my mouth with his cock, sound vibrations reverberated along his shaft through another orgasm before allowing me to breathe.
His mouth was attentive to my nipples, those torturous pinpoints of pleasure throughout my orgasmic torment of the wand.
I begged him to fuck me; he teased me that something else would be inside of me; used my mouth instead, again through another orgasm.
Mercilessly, the wand throbbed between my legs. I begged for it to stop, for him to be inside of me. Again, I received a substitute as he inserted an anal plug – the edge touching the wand and reverberating the vibrations throughout the plug.
Begged again. This time the wand was stopped and rope was casually removed between my thighs holding the toy as his hot mouth slanted down and tongue tasted my orgasms, his fingers occasionally joining in to brush against the sides of my wet lips or delving into my depths.
Already overworked with sensations, his mouth was divine torture. I tensed against his lips, would have grinded myself more fully into his face except he was still unhurriedly untying my thighs. A brief respite as the rope was removed far too quickly to give a true break in passion.
Still, I begged him to fuck me. He denied me yet again, this time a vibrator was inserted deeply into my drenched depths, slammed in and out. I arched, having full access to my body again, almost came off the bed as I came in sharp waves of pleasure.
I didn’t know how much more I could take, begged he take me instead. He commented on all my begging, encouraged me to let him know how badly I wanted him. When he heard enough, my hands finally felt the purchase of his shoulders, his hips cushioned between my thighs, the head of his cock pressed through the initial resistance of my entrance before pushing down into my body.
Unlike his more slow teasing and taunting up to this point, he kept up a maddening quick pace with sex, rammed almost painfully against my walls, made me come all the more harder from the impact, changed the positions after every couple of orgasms he took from me. Once, when I was rolled over on all fours with knees on the edge of the bed, he grabbed the Doxy wand as he was thrusting in and out and pressed it against the anal plug; my body tensed with the additional sensation and pushed against him and the wand. As he rocked in and out, I felt the plug moving with his hips and cock. I clenched around him in my own orgasms, felt him finally find his own release.
Sweaty, panting, exhausted, I crumpled onto the mattress and he chuckled as he snuggled around my prone form.
Though that led to more caressing, more playing, as my responsiveness tempted him to continue. I asked for his fingers to be shoved in and stretch, wanted to feel more sore in my cunt, screamed through an orgasm that he granted. He lifted my legs, curled them up to gain access to the back of my thighs and bottom to punch, eventually getting tired and moved to his forearms making contact instead of fists, occasionally the impact touched my soaked lips and the plug, created further tension that eventually led to another orgasm.
Tempted by my reactions, again we had so much sex that this time I begged in and out of pleasurable waves of consciousness. Begged to stop, begged not to stop, screamed yes, screamed no. He pounded in and out of my confused pleas until he found his own orgasm.
Snuggled for the second time, his fingers lazily grazed against my skin, made their way between my legs. “You’re so swollen,” he murmured against my ear, which apparently meant I needed to be treated to my vibrator. An orgasm tore through my body and I was unaware of my reaction as I launched away from him, grabbed the vibrator out and threw it on the floor far away from me. He laughed at my unexpected defense instinct against overwhelming pleasure and called a truce.
Exhausted, prompted to clean myself up, he then tucked me in between the sheets and left me alone to pass out into a deep and well deserved sleep the rest of the night.
This is a post that is always a work in progress, as I listen to conversations and agree with so many perspectives. It’s also shifted in myself. Consent is something that is on and off screamed about on Fetlife, and trust is something stressed in the kink communities. When the flurry of writings come out, I try to sort out my own perspective and mixed emotions – especially when it came to my own experience of my trust being broken.
For a play person, consent is crucial. Safe words, negotiations, boundaries being respected are all important factors of the dynamic. Sure, there is trust, but the trust is that those consent pieces are respected. I also have a love/hate relationship with safe words – for a play partner, I keep them at the forefront of my mind; in a relationship I don’t think to use them unless it’s been negotiated prior – I want to go further down the rabbit hole and explore the strange curiosities of comfortably uncomfortable. Safe words imply that a boundary may be crossed due to a lack of awareness of a limit (which may be necessary in both play partners and relationships, but less so in a relationship as the person knows limits).
For a relationship, trust is crucial – consent less so. There is a level of trust that must exist in order for me to fully let go; I entrust things to someone else – including my well-being; I leave it up to that person in that moment. Trust is based on the unknown as well as the known – my partner knows me well enough for this relationship; I trust my partner to choose things specifically for me without my knowledge and based on what is best for me.
To think of it another way: when someone asked what you want at a restaurant and you say, “I’ll leave it up to you,” or “surprise me,” they will not order things that they know you despise. If you go on a date with someone, you strive to the next date – not push your own agenda without care for the other person. So too do I expect my partner to take the time to know me deeply, intimately, to know what I will not do, to push gently for that next step together and go at a pace that is conducive for us both.
I too take that same pace with them – I am not a passive participant.
This type of trust is built over time and carefully cultivated – hence the relationship aspect for me, and it is constantly evolving. It’s a delicate dance of patience and nurturing. And serious communication. It allows me to enter into gray areas, push past boundaries, experiment in a safe place.
Consent is black or white, broken or upheld to the highest degree. It hints at a lack of trust. Negotiation is fantastic, and often necessary in the beginning of two people who do not know each other, but there is something far sexier in the wonder of what’s next in a scene unfolding to me.
At a munch, someone asked the group, “how do you know if someone wants this,” and they replied communication, asking. These are simplistic ways, and truly a great thing, but mid scene I do not want to stop, nor am I going to the very limits of what is negotiated or something that they like. If someone gives a list of kinks, I’m not going to go down every one, I’m going to stroke a few carefully and watch for reactions.
Some examples: with The Wanderer:
“I test the waters, unsure of what he’ll allow…he’s a new partner and I want to please him. I am lucky in that I know a bit about him … but I don’t know what level he exerts dominance, what level of passivity or submission he expects from me.
So my fingertips lightly caress, then become bolder with hands, and then move from fabric to removing fabric, then from hands to mouth.
I never once push, ask, nor even communicate through body language that he should fuck me. I respect his boundary, as I am always very respectful and conscientious of any boundary given,” – Developing
Okay, now I play with the boundary in a teasing way for fun, though I would never push for sex – it is the boundary. I’ll still mimic the act of sex, grind myself down on his lap, bend over before he spanks me and bump my bottom against his pelvis – but it is clearly a tease and not trying to get away with something I shouldn’t – I only do things of his nature when he is fully clothed, wearing his chastity belt of pants as it were. Even to be comfortable enough to know that my teasing would be acceptable took patience and tiny trials, starts and stops to see how far our trust in each extended.
With Mr. Texas, we started exploring pain elements with safewords, now it is something that is not needed, nor rarely used unless discussed, so it is something I would not think to use unless discussed:
“I also, especially when I top him, realize that I am dealing with a man not used to coloring at all, so I listen to his body language, his words, his noises, and his actions and proceed cautiously, stopping far before he colors. If I force him to color, I warn him ahead of time that is my intent and do only one action (like bite down) until he remembers to use it.
Again, though, I don’t believe that I should only stop when he uses his safe word. If I am playing to the edge it is with someone I trust and who trusts me, someone that I have played with many times before, someone that will know my tells and listen to my body language the same way that I do theirs.” – Safeword Complication
Mr. Texas and I have extensive trust in each other, and we have certainly baby stepped our way into kink since he was inexperienced and I was untrusting (when he met me). It is this openness of being a strong foundation of exploration that allowed me to relax enough to try anal sex again and impact play has gone far more than any other in more variety of ways.
Before the fallout of my ex husband, he gave me the safe space to explore my sexuality and my world to kink (it was a mutual new experience for us both) without judgment. He pushed my boundaries far past what I thought I would be comfortable with, but it was gently, always (until the end) with the intent that the exploration continue and was comfortable with both of us.
I believe in both consent and trust – but my relationships are less about consent because I do trust them, boundaries are more gray areas, safewords not necessary as we read and know each other (though still there, if need be- a safeword would not be ignored). I cannot consent to a journey unknown.
*Continued from here
Punching is far more effective and safer when I am pressed against something soft from the recoil of force, so after the orgasm Mr. Texas guided me away from the hard and unforgiving bathroom counters. It was blindly, as a leather blindfold now soaked with my tears unusual smell was my primary overriding sense. Trust led us back into the bedroom where he bent me over the bed and punched a few more times at the softest fleshiest parts of my bottom and thighs before throwing me onto the bed on my stomach. It was unsettling to not be able to see, for my body to snap from one place to another by force, something that created a different type of awareness within me.
His fists came down faster and harder in the familiar position but I yellowed rather quickly on both cheeks.
“You normally take a lot more,” he commented, rolled me over and fingered me to yet another orgasm, completely took my mind off of the pain. He kissed me passionately as the head of his cock pushed past my entrance and parted the way into my depths; my body welcomed his intrusion, clenched with pleasure rippling along his length.
After an orgasm from me he slid out, one hand glided across my throat as his fingers and thumb found my pulse on both sides of the neck and softly pressed. It didn’t cut off air nor blood, just a gentle reminder that he was in charge and immediately made my mind quiet down again, an unvoiced complaint of him stopping sex silent on my lips. The other hand roughly fingered me to several more orgasms, my fluids coated his fingers and sounded out into the otherwise quiet room – I am often non verbal with a hand around my throat.
Again, in between orgasms, the smell of wet leather wafted into my awareness.
He slid into me again and we had sex for so long, in so many positions that I screamed in overwhelming pleasure until my throat felt raw and my stomach hurt from the tension.
Eventually he growled sexily in his own release. At the time I was bent over the bed standing so he scooped me up and laid me gently in the middle of the bed, cuddled against me despite how sweaty my overworked body was. The blindfold came off but the pleasant smell of wet leather lingered.
Mr. Texas praised how well I did as he stroked the side of me, his hand ran across a hip.
Smack! And he was back to patting a cheek, positioned his lower body a bit away to get the space to reach my bottom while the arm underneath my head went around front to hold steady firm pressure against my throat. Several soft strokes from his hand and then a hard one, the anxiousness of an occasional promise of a hard one that never landed to watch me tense and gasp, which made him chuckle.
Eventually he positioned me onto my stomach to again punch against my cheeks and the tops of my thighs, though I was fast complaining.
I was also in that floaty space where pain and pleasure collided and blurred and nothing else existed beyond the sensations.
…That is, until he reached to the nightstand and rubbed menthol into my cheeks. “Red,” I stated, concerned at how cold my cheeks became, how they intensified the sting that my skin had already been feeling.
“Okay,” he said soothingly, rolled me over and held me. “No more.”
Perhaps it would seem strange that menthol made me red so quickly, but earlier we had played with a few chemicals and menthol had made its way to my clit and I hated how that felt.
The smell of it finally penetrated the wet leather smell.
I asked him to wash it off so he pulled me into the bathroom and bent me over the counter, this time was only to graze my overly sensitive bottom with a warm washcloth.
He commented on how out of it I looked after our play session and steered me back into the bedroom, tucked us both into the covers and snuggled up against my back. I dozed but woke quickly once the gel penetrated my muscles and made my cheeks feel on fire – a different sort from the hot throbbing after impact, more like pins radiating heat from deep under the skin.
He was already fast asleep but it woke me and kept me awake until the sensations much later finally subsided, effectively taking me out of my quiet mind.
Lesson learned: I don’t like chemicals.
Mr. Texas hit me so hard I cried. I don’t know if I’ve cried before from pain, though to be fair I more teared up than sobbed.
What was even more striking is that I wore a soft supple leather blindfold at the time and the duration of time I wore it I smelled wet leather.
Previously, he was exhausted and told he wasn’t in the mood to beat me – not that I requested it but we talked about it throughout the day, the way someone may talk about what was for dessert after dinner.
When he walked me to bed, I thought it was simply to tuck me in, but he instructed I hand him my blindfold – an easy enough task considering I had just taken it off him mere hours earlier and the reason he cited for being exhausted. My view was obstructed with leather fabric; there is something about being visually cut off from the world, from him, that allows me to focus more intensively on myself, on my other senses, hear my heartbeat and breath drawn in and out, hear his footsteps approaching or his fingers picking up or placing down an implement.
Hands gripped my upper arms and steered me to the end of the bed, positioned me halfway leaning over the footboard, so that he could flog me. A new one for him and he had two to choose from, preferring the longer one as he felt more in control. He went gently but the leather tips would occasionally sting and I squirmed in a mixture of pain and pleasure.
What I liked most was that he warmed up my skin and kept a rhythmic pace that made my body relaxed and hypnotized my mind on what he was doing. Eventually he guided me into the bathroom, where he bent me over and the flogger striked with a bit more force, though nowhere near painful.
From flogger to crop, where the warm up was extensive and settled my mind and body even more deeply to where he could strike surprisingly hard, so much so that he commented on how much I was taking. But eventually the crop stung too much and too many places on me were unappreciative of that sensation.
Mr. Texas’ hands did the real damage as they almost always do, first caressed my reddened cheeks which felt amazing, softly patted a few times, then pulled back and spanked to where the imprint of every finger and thumb connect to his palm was not only visible – it was felt.
I jumped up and elbowed him in the chest, though not hard as I couldn’t see and he stepped back. If we had made eye contact, I’m sure my gaze would have conveyed my dislike over such extreme stingy pain, though he didn’t need to see – he knew how much I disliked it.
“Mother fucker,” I gritted, tip toeing to relieve some sting on my cheek – it didn’t alleviate any. His hand went to my mid back and he pushed me down to bend over the counter again.
The other cheek received the same treatment of arm pulled back and force release with every area of his stingy hand.
“Yellow,” I cried out and the first cheek was thwacked entirely too hard again; he took my coloring to change cheeks, but the force was far more than I could handle so soon. Tears sprang to my eyes, “yellow,” my voice weaker, almost timid from being a bit watered down, and the second cheek was hit again. He kept a hand on my mid back and the other hand reached down between my thighs so he could finger me to an orgasm, an excellent proposal to distract me from the torment.
Though my cheeks felt on fire despite the fact that I drenched his fingers.
After my orgasm, he stroked my reddened bottom and then punched. After all the sting, I had little tolerance for it and it wasn’t long before I called yellow and he switched it up to fingering me again.
While the tears abated, as I was pressed face down into my arms on the unforgiving bathroom counter, I began to smell the wet leather. It was so strong a smell that it quite possessed all my other senses for a moment and it was all I could focus on. It smelled like sex and ache, or perhaps my desires permeated the leather; it was clean, crisp, masculine, woodsy.
I didn’t need to see him to know that he was there, suffering at his hands because he loved me enough to take me into this small, safe space where my brain could reorient itself onto what was important: my body and senses, our love, being present in the moment.
The story continues here.
Mr. Texas has this habit of not coming very quickly. It may seem like a wonderful thing, except I like to change up from having sex after about 15 minutes, regardless of how many positions we engage in. I used to have this habit of hooking my heels on the insides of a man’s hips and physically pushing him out if he was on top after about 15 minutes. I don’t do that with Texas, I let him continue until his incredibly sexy grunts and groans and goosebumps dotting his skin signal his climax.
Perhaps it’s because he orgasms so beautifully I let him continue.
So after far too many multiple orgasms, with his own pleasure slowly trickling out of my body and the drops increasing my sensitivity as they move between my folds, he presses my body against his own – little breathless spoon wrapped around gasping and sweating big spoon, sealing our bodies tightly together. His fingers caress, and his semi erection presses against my cheeks; I moan and arch slightly into him.
He roughly rolls me onto my stomach, his hands grip thighs, palms press into cheeks, and he leaves me for a moment. I turn my head to look at what he is doing – such an unusual activity from this man after we start to cuddle. “Who gave you permission to move?” His voice stern, cluing me in that my body is about to go from pleasure to pain. I clench instinctively, and the echo of an orgasm throbs where our orgasms are still pooled in my depths.
A few days prior, in the hot tub where all our steamy discussions drift, we talked about our experiences with the cane that he now grabbed. I guided him in that discussion for more breaks, more change up from hard to soft, moving his position so it hit on different legs different ways; the cane was a challenge for me because it stung and I am positively wimpy at sting. So when the cane came out, he must’ve remember our talk.
He did everything right and the pain only heightened my sensitive body, became crests that were at the edge of my tolerance and rolled through my foggy brain, keeping me present on him and my beautiful body.
Rolled over, he entered me again, his hands going up my body and gripping my breasts. “I have this urge to take the crop to your nipples.”
“Go for it,” I agreed, hazy and breathless from an orgasm, “just remember that my nipples can take a lot but my breasts can’t.”
So gently, with precision, he cropped my nipples, that unexpectedly hardened and created sparks of pleasure and tension tightening even around his cock buried deep, led to such a powerful orgasm.
My body is a wondrous thing.
Earlier in the day, we painted the bedroom in colors of my choosing so that it felt like my domain – Mr. Texas is clever at using things at hand. He rolled me over, brought out the tape used in painting and stuck it over the reddened stripes. He caned over those places, the sting more thud with the protective layer, and then smacked with his hand a few times.
Next, the tape was so slowly and sensually peeled off. It was odd: far too intimate for my body to feel like clothing, more like I was losing a layer of skin or stinging places were peeled off that exposed sensitive nerves to the air. Three strips of tape were on each thigh, going from inside the thigh to wrap around and slightly up to the outside of the thigh. They glided off effortlessly with the slight pulling, making my skin so achingly aware as they gently removed.
So sensual; I moaned and raised my hips up in welcome.
Unable to resist the plump offering, his fists beat against the fleshy bottom and back of thighs, a welcome thud after sting. Being resourceful, he took an unused paint roller and slowly rolled the fuzzy fabric up my thighs, bottom, back – a warm blanket rolled up and graced my skin. Wherever the roller was, so too were my every thoughts, just feeling the sensation. A short pause, a movement alongside me, when again the roller traversed, there was a thin line of cold across – water he dripped onto the material – that really made me aware of the roller circling around as it traveled.
Next, it was the paint brush’s bristles, stiff little points passing along my curves, following paths of red stripes that no longer hurt but welcomed the brushing.
He beat me with his fists again after such gentle care, yet my body and brain welcomed the sinking of his knuckles into muscles. He rolled me over onto my back and in one hand gripped both of my ankles, curling me up a little to smack at both sides of my bottom’s crease and thighs, occasionally getting my swollen wet labia, where eventually the stinging smacks made me cry out.
Telling me how absolutely beautiful I was, he lowered my legs, then mentioned moving me into the bathroom where there was more light for a picture. Mr. Texas is learning so very well, however, as he changed his mind before he could encourage me to move off of the bed, instead allowed me to lay in my hazy brain and lazy body, and held me in his arms. My body was now a sweaty mess, hair tangled and refusing to be tamed no matter how much he tried to brush it back as I laid my head on his chest.
I drifted in and out of his praise and caresses, fell into a deep sleep that gloriously lasted the entire night.