Books and something sexy or kink related tick a box in a brain that I love. Aurora Glory does this picture.
Another picture with a similar concept, but one done in what looks to be a library, is by Jerusalem Mortimer.
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.
The first time I wrote about this topic was for Kink of the Week over four years ago. At that point, I had just been spanked for the time after orgasms. I really enjoyed that first time, and slowly, tentatively, carefully I was spanked from time to time – but always after orgasms and never with much frequency.
Kink of the Week also got me to talk about one of the rare times I bruised from having my bottom spanked a year after that, with a partner that was less careful and tentative, and whose spanking I discovered I really enjoyed despite the less orgasm-hazed brain and more with the warm up of just his hand on my skin. I learned that spanking on its own could be something I desired if done right – though far be for me to deny an orgasm.
The following year, again with Kink of the Week, I discussed how hands on my ass has helped me accept that even this part of my body is sexy – before that I thought I lacked the bottom for anyone, myself included, to appreciate.
That post was two years ago and spanking happened irregularly. Since then, I’ve met two men and they both spank me quite a bit.
The Wanderer’s main kink is spanking, and when we first began playing it certainly wasn’t mine – I was still really new to this activity and had a love/hate relationship with it. But I wanted to engage in a kink that he enjoyed, so he gave me my first over-the-knee spanking and showed me the power dynamics that can be felt from just a change of positioning. I have since learned that I enjoy spanking on its own and sometimes want it under the right circumstances. Bare handed spanking is now part of our play, which I had a strong feeling it would be because it was his kink, but I was pleasantly surprised how much I can enjoy it. We engage in this activity so much that I created a category for it on the blog. He’s taught me that spanking on its own can be a whole scene, that sex and other things do not need to occur for me to get something out of it that I need or want. Though again, far be it for me to say no to orgasms – I’ve even orgasmed from being spanked:
“Right when it began to feel good, it began to really sting again. He swatted constantly and consistently at a fast pace and somehow even with my legs rendered useless I managed to twist and turn around his body, wedging myself between him and the bed for protection.
He simply laughed at me and wrapped a solid arm around my waist, continuing his sting assault as he shifted his own body off of the the bench.
I clung to the bench as if it would save my overly dramatic life, pressed my breasts and belly and thighs into it, willing myself to meld into hiding.
He shifted tactics and used thuds – it was probably from his palms but it felt like his fists. My body tensed at the onslaught and I began to clench. More tension and suddenly my body released and surrendered at the pain, creating a pleasurable orgasm in the wake.” – The Brush
At the same time as spanking became part of my play, I was also dating Mr. Texas. He was a vanilla (big emphasis on that past tense word), and spanking seemed to be a good baby step. Mr. Texas doesn’t always like warm up, he loves to see the marks that his hand can create and is often impatient to get there, but he is a natural top in this. (He’s also taught me that I enjoy punching with the thud far more than spanking with the sting.)
He has also made me cry from spanking:
“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.” – Wet Leather
Between these two men, spanking has occurred a lot in the last couple of years, as well as the addition of a play partner in a dungeon who has used me as demo bottom for spanking with newbies. I think I claim that bare handed spanking is a kink of mine, something I could not do when I first began writing about it four years ago.
*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.
It had been months, and I was emotional. Yet, to see The Wanderer’s smile, I was smiling and felt myself relaxing (later irony considering how tense he made me that night).
He was on a conference call, his standing figure silhouetted against the backdrop of the city lights in the large window (what is up with him and large windows in his hotel rooms?). Airplane shadows in the sky, colorful cars nonstop – my eyes were only on him, though I did appreciate how the background represented him so perfectly – always a traveler.
On my stomach, I stretched out on the bed, muscles appreciative after the drive to meet him. He came over to perch on the edge, my dress allowed me to feel the light tracing of his fingers from toes to calves to thighs, up over the curve of my bottom, lingered there with soft circles, followed the sensitive hollow of my lower back, up my spine, across my shoulders, brushed my hair back to smile down at me. I smiled back at him.
He muted the call for a minute. “It’s good to see you smile.” The concern was in his voice and I appreciated it – him caring.
I rubbed his thigh through his denim, had the urge to undo his pants and take him into my mouth. Resisted and listened instead to the timber of his voice as he talked. He threw down his phone, having the device in his ear, and began massaging my feet, took a moment to look at the design I had painted on from the last pedicure and commented it was cute. His hands rubbed and massaged up calves and thighs, became a bit rougher at my rounded cheeks.
His spanking kink is obvious, though this trip he was almost as enamored with my breasts.
I had the urge to take him into my mouth again, whispered I was going down to the bar so that I didn’t distract from his call. He gestured five more minutes, handed me a room key, and we parted ways.
Once he joined me at the bar, mere minutes later as promised, conversation between us was casual, though it would have been odd for me if it didn’t contain some flirtation – so of course there were a few remarks. I spoke softly of my urges in the room and he mentioned that the call would have been a lot more pleasant if I had given in to the urge. A man sitting near us would occasionally give a sidelong glance, a smile, and perhaps he heard a few things I shared.
We had a drink, a meal, then opted for nothing else but the rest of the evening in the room. Our time is few and far between for too many practicals and not enough fun.
The Wanderer allowed me to push him down sitting on the bed as we kissed; I straddled his lap while tasting his lips, used my body to press his further down into the mattress, my hips ground down in promise as my lips and tongue tasted from his mouth, moved onto skin.
Having excellent control and never getting too far carried away, he stopped me, though the regret was still evident in his body language. Still, with a devilish smile, he told me to get up and unpack the items I brought. I moved over to the large suitcase, complaining that toys took up a lot of space. In part, I was a bit defensive – he’s an expert traveler and will be away from home far longer periods and dressed spotlessly yet I always use larger luggage.
Days before, he had instructed that I bring a few items:
As I took out the gorgeous paddle, he swatted me with it, told me to be grateful he kept on the clothes after I whined. It wasn’t much of a warm up with the force – a sign of what was to come. Next, the crop kissed me through far too thin fabric and my noise signaled complaint…and apparently a please-hurt-me-more if his reaction was any indication.
Grabbed, spun around, and pulled over his lap on the nearby bed before I could catch my balance, his large hands caressed my dress up, he seemed delighted and slightly distracted at my polka-dot panties just briefly before slapping until I’m sure my cheeks were a pinkened hue.
Got it…don’t complain or he’ll give me something to complain; on the other hand I also stored the message to complain so I no longer have to anxiously unpack torturous devices: I’m a flexible learner that way.
He pulled me up and undressed me slowly from behind, sensually his hands caressed, his mouth kissed up and down, his body pressed against my back and ground his desire against my cheeks. My own hands reached back to fondle his growing erection and in my impatience I undid the buckle of his belt. He must’ve felt it as his hands gripped my wrists between our hot bodies.
“Oh you want my belt, do you?” He whispered menacingly against my ear, or perhaps I heard the menace in the meaning.
“No.” I certainly didn’t want his belt but I tightened in anticipation anyhow.
Regardless, he threw me down on the bed and his belt licked painfully at my rear. It stung and felt like it sliced, my skin not warmed up enough for the force.
Yep, I was totally justified in hearing a threat with the belt.
He stood me back up and told me to put back on his belt. I took my time – partly because I had never put on a man’s belt, usually just the opposite, but also to take advantage of slowly touching him even though I had just been punished for trying to take advantage.
I may be a flexible learner, but I also apparently don’t learn the lesson the first go round.
Next, I was ordered to roll up his sleeves and I joked of how boding. Apparently I’m dense as a rock because while I joked, I didn’t foresee the threat that was to come.
He moved a chair into the center of the floor and had me bend over, grabbed a larger, thicker belt and went to work on my ass, not gentle but harsh and painful. I cried out my dismay and pain, trying to escape. Normally at this much distress signs, he would have slowed or gone softer, however this time he simply wrapped an arm around my waist to hold me down and continued his onslaught.*
As if the belt wasn’t enough, he spanked over the belt marks’ welts. Perhaps he wanted to lower the racket I was making with crying out in pain, or perhaps he wanted the racket to be one of pleasure, but he promised me an orgasm as he picked me up to lay me down in the center of the bed. I laid on reddened fire as his fingers delved into my wetness, his words speaking of how I clearly didn’t dislike the belt as much as noises indicated. My body betrayed me.
*This was after my sister died and the weeks in between I had told him that I needed a rough beating to penetrate through the haze and just feel something. He gave me what I asked for – and to date this is probably the hardest I’ve had an implement strike me.
***To see a picture, click here
***To read his account of this scene, click here
So, Mr Texas is learning to beat me. The other day he had me bent over a pillow on the bed and he was spanking my ass and taking a crop to it. He would create a pattern, and every so often skip a hit, laughing at my reaction to the anticipation of the impact.
“You know,” he said merrily, “I think I really like this.”
Those words stuck with me then and they stick with me now.
In the beginning of our relationship, he was very judgmental of my wants, desires, kinks. And then he learned a bit. And then we separated.
Months later, going back to him more for convenience (which I’m honest and admit that I want nothing further), he has completely turned around his mindset on things.
He would tell me that he would never hurt me. Now he offers to beat me – he’s particularly good at spanking and leaving vibrant hand prints across my ass, though he still needs to work on his warm up.
He didn’t understand going so hard as to leave bruises, now he takes pride in punching (with the heel of his hand mostly) to the point that he leaves bruises across my ass or thighs.
I would really like to think that he truly is enjoying this.
He told me that he had a change of mind because while we were separated he realized that he was judging me and being negative towards things that I wanted. That he realized that he needed to be supportive if he truly wanted a relationship with me, and he did.
I am worried, however, that he didn’t really change his mindset, that he trying to be supportive but not really enjoying exploring these aspects of kink with me. What if he is only doing this for my benefit and receiving no real value for himself?
This is something that is beyond my control, and I know something that I cannot control and should then just take at face value, yet I don’t want him to be with me under any sort of false pretenses. I don’t want him to compromise who he is or what he feels just to be in a relationship with me.
And maybe he’s not. But I am suspicious of the sudden change, the practical 180 of what he is saying and doing.
Sure, my Wanderer wrote about connecting the dots, but when I think about connecting the dots, I like to do it even more simply (and maybe more spectacularly because I’m an overachiever?).
I suggested that we start to share the differing perspectives because perspectives have always been fascinating to me. So with that concept in mind, here’s a countdown of our moments with a side by side viewpoint:
The bench, the brush, the brute:
“Nearing the end of the scene during an OTK hairbrush spanking she decided to try to play high jumper, shot up and off my lap and onto the bench I was on and to get away tried rolling behind me. Truth be told is i was just about done with making her bottom glow until that little move. She was nearing what was her typical edge in the pain department and was going to get a lot of pleasure. Pussy shaking cunt clenching breath steal pleasure. and all of the orgasms she craves Of course she didn’t know that ofr how close she was from being to to stand up and go get her Doxy and Lelo. Instead though earned herself a lot more pain and much longer and harder beating than was originally intended.” His: Spanked to Orgasm
“I handed him the brush and he pulled me over his knee where he sat on a bench at the end of the bed, my hands clenched the end of the mattress. The first few strokes were soft and I moaned more in pleasure at the contact, but they quickly became harder and I balked at the sting. I squirmed enough that my tiptoes hit the floor and I pushed off for all I was worth, instinctively trying to escape the sting.
Mentally I cringed at how wimpy I was at sting. Couldn’t handle even a little bit, I inwardly criticized, and tried to will my body to be still and take it – because I could.” Mine: The Brush
So many spankings:
Our second meeting:
“One minute he was focused on getting her to that edge, the next devouring her pussy with the entirety of his mouth and sucking all of her sex completely into his mouth without changing the motion of his tongue and stimulation. Eventually settling in on her and a series of slightly varied motions and frictions that made her purr so perfectly urging him not to change, to take her were she now longed to go he inserted two fingers and explored her depths as he focused in on getting her to the edge again. Slow, steady and firmly applying pressure with each pass his hand worked in concert with his mouth until she began to tense. her legs drew wider as if to say “There! Stay there and don’t let up” which this time he didn’t as she tenses her pussy around his hand, drove her clit into his tongue and for a moment was as hard and as still as a stone before a moaning exhalation and a gasp. Her body shook.” Him: A Good Licking
“Ever the amazing man of sensations, I was on the bed and being gifted with his own mouth, his finger delving and exploring the wet mess he created.
I know I begged, arched, welcomed, clenched. I don’t know if I did my confusing “please” which could mean please don’t stop, or please stop and give me a break, depending on what side of the pleasure peak I am on.” Mine: Developing
The first time:
“Do you want to do some Rope? Are you ready?” she asked.
Boy was I ready but simply smiled and said yes. You know me mister cool sitting across the room. Legs stretched out, arms over my head watching her. Which is not at all an unpleasant thing to do. Yet I remained comfortable and in my own way both engaged and distant. In part because I tend to be very self-aware of my physical size compared to others.” Him: My Rope Life Rebooted
“When we went back to the hotel room, he sat in a chair and I laid on the bed. We just talked, he seemed in no hurry, and it’s bad manner to show how impatient I am to someone I don’t know well. Time was getting shorter until I had to leave, however, so I bounced on the bed and asked if he wanted to do rope.” Mine: The Wanderer
Okay, not a shared perspective, but we had so many moments that I didn’t write them all and neither did he:
Tied, spread, on the floor: Him: Teasing, Permission to Orgasm
I loved reading about a blowjob I gave:
His: The 20-Minute Orgasm