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:
- 3 impact implements (I only had two, he reassured me he brought 3 belts just in case, well isn’t that considerate?)
- 3 insertables (which really brought up the fact that I need a dildo)
- My violet wand kit (a huge amount of space needed just for this)
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
I am a switch, a fact that’s been glaringly obvious since my divorce. Sure, I tend towards the bottoming side, but every so often I have the urge to hurt, to bite, to tear into, to beat upon his body like a canvas where I leave my mark that he is undeniably mine and will be left with the physical reminders of me for days to come.
Having the time to enjoy his reactions, to experiment and try new things, to explore this other side of me, is what the weekends are all about.
Remember photos similar to these? Reconciling with my husband, he didn’t want to see the photos with David, but since that didn’t work, and I have so very many from some hot scenes, I thought this month would be a good month to showcase the story.
This actually does include a cowbell, but I’ll get to that part later…
We met at a Starbucks down the road from a dungeon that I had never been to. He had been contacting me to play with him for a couple of of months but with life being so busy and then my sister dying, I just stopped going. This was to be my first solo kink event after she died, and I almost canceled.
It didn’t help any that it was a stormy night and many parts of the roads were closed or traffic was horrendous through all the car accidents.
He walked in the door and immediately stated: “you look so vanilla.”
I was wearing a sweater that is appropriate for work, and jeans. I had asked previously if there was a dress code and he stated there wasn’t. “Well yes,” I was a bit taken about and briefly worried if I appeared too vanilla, “but I do vanilla well and we are meeting at a Starbucks.”
He agreed, ordered a drink, then we sat down and began negotiations. He had watched me play with others and also read my fetishes and notes on Fetlife, so I was already impressed with his coming to the negotiations informed. I had asked around about him, read his fetishes as well, but had never seen him play (hence why I asked around about him). I was told he was creative by others.
The scene last four hours…
He warned me that he brought a lot of things, and I parked behind him at the dungeon to help him carry in his bags. Once we entered, I saw some friends and we visited for a bit, then staked out a room.
By the time we finished the scene, it looked like a cross between a toy store and a torture chamber. Seriously, there are so many titles I could have picked…
“Violet Wands and toy swords”
“Floggers and paddles and toys, oh my!”
“Race tracks and nerf bats”
“Cruising a dungeon tied to a moving cart”
I undressed down to panties. He started with a posture collar that barely fit my small neck, and then with rope. Starting anything with rope is always a good move, as that’s my primary love. “I’ll give you a tour of the dungeon,” he told me as he tied me to a moving cart that he had modified by placing soft cushiony foam on and attaching tie off rings around all the sides. He tied my legs and hands to the cart, and then off we went where he dragged the rope attached to the cart all around the place, introducing me to people I had never met and showing me the different rooms. He would spin me around from time to time, and when we were in the entrance to the place talking to people the door opened to the outside and he shouted out, “good lord, woman, cover yourself,” and wrapped an arm around my breasts amid my laughter.
He was a very playful man, even more obvious once we went back to the room and I was bent over a bench while he opened up his play bag. My behind and backs of the legs were treated to what I consider standard sadistic implements like:
Paddles (okay if they thud), rods (nope, somewhat wimpy – “remember I hate sting,” I would remind him), a toy sword (“I dub thee…” he went on a serious voice at one point and gently touched both sides of my shoulders as he spoke).
Wooden spoons, spatulas, but then also a strange and large frosting knife (so cold when it wasn’t smacking me).
I was tied to a St Andrews cross, after he claimed I was far too short for it and he dragged steps against it so that I could stand up higher. A flogger rhythmically swiped at my back, thighs, and bottom, a relaxing moment that I appreciated. Hot wheels race tracks swung into those areas, and the plastic tracks stung and hurt so badly that I asked him to switch out somewhat quickly.
I was tied laying to a high platform and the violet wand came out, the noise always far more frightening than the actual feeling, and he began with larger implements that lit up beautifully but were hardly felt, down to the unseen pinpoints of pain from a pencil lead.
I wasn’t paying much attention to the doorway or what others were doing, being so involved experiencing different sensations, but I would still occasionally become aware of my surroundings a bit more, mostly because of noise. Often, we would have an audience in the doorway, but what really drew a crowd was the cowbell. I could tell because of the laughter.
Yep, this man had a cowbell.
When a good song came on, and I was bent over a bench, he handed me a hefty cowbell and told me to hold it at a certain angle. Then he sat himself down, took out drumsticks. and beat down upon my body in time to the music, every so often hitting that cowbell. The noise was…well, a cowbell. It rang alongside my ear and after awhile I began to like the sound as it signaled a hit reprieve from the drumsticks. The noise also drew the crowd, as earlier in the evening he was discussing how he had brought a cowbell, and people remarked they were curious how it would play out (see the pun?) in a scene. Once they heard the cowbell, their merriment in their laughter was apparent even over the sound of the cowbell.
I am glad I met up with him, as laughter is a bit fleeting for me right now.
*Last year, for the Christmas prompt set to the song, “Little Drummer Boy”, I shared a time my husband slapped my labia for the first time. This year, Exhibit Unadorned, is opening up the old prompts and I thought how much had changed in a year (a divorce, a new relationship, etc.). So I thought I had far more of an appropriate scene in playing with new partner for the first time that went with the prompt of drummer boy.