Category Archives: D/s

Enough

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8
Twitt

The belt asks, Is this enough?, as it licks a path across my cheeks and I moan. Greedy!, it declares as it paints a striped whisper upon my thighs.

“Yes,” I whisper back. “Stop,” I say between gritted teeth. “More,” I beg on the same jagged breath.

Indecisively, I push away and lift up again — a fast grind against the mattress. End this; begin again. It’s too much; it’s not enough, my body decides.

He commands me to raise my ass and I wonder why I listen.

* * *

Without leaving the bed, we travel to a hundred places. We lie nose-to-nose, so close that we can taste each other’s breath.

He shows me his childhood home. He takes me to the track field, the airport, the church. I introduce him to my brother, father and mother. I feed him candied sweet potatoes that melt on his tongue. I dance on the pool table, slowly swaying my hips as I stare directly into his eyes.

His fingers find me and the rain begins.

* * *

Tears stain the sheets where we write our tangled history.

With each stroke, I fight the urge to stand. I shake my head; I breathe. I stay where I am. From behind me, I think I hear him murmur, “You’ve had enough.”

Not wanting to, I disagree.

Fortitude

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17
Twitt

An email to D: May 24, 2010

Last night we talked about punishment, intensity and your control over my “sentencing”. Why does the thought of punishment turn me on? I don’t enjoy the pain of punishment — I think that much is obvious. But I love being held accountable and knowing that your expectations of me are high. As much as that paddle hurt, I replayed those moments while Ed [my vibrator] worked his magic last night. Those were the images I came to.

Specifically I focused on the moments between each stroke, when I was trying to find my balance and you were there to help me recover. It truly felt like a collaborative effort. You didn’t withdraw your affection from me during the punishment. It wasn’t cold or angry. But you didn’t go lightly either.

It turns me on that you can identify what is needed and have the fortitude to see it through, however unpleasant it might be. How unpleasant was it for you, I wonder?

November, 2011:

I unzip. Although your hand is now relaxed by your side, the index finger still holds its point — prepared to command at my slightest hesitation.

I am trembling. My mouth opens as if to object but instead I swallow a great gulp and do as I am told. I can’t bear to look at you so, with my jeans and panties at my knees, I glare at your waist instead.

I don’t want to know what you’re feeling. I don’t want to see my regret mirrored on your face. I’ve learned that the more regretful you are about my punishment, the harder the paddle will fall.

You do not guide me over the back of the couch, but you wait while I position myself. You make me responsible; you make me own what is happening.

I grip the cushion and feel the cool wood tap my cheeks as you take aim. We now exist in half-seconds: a clench; an inhale; a cool rush of air; a tightened grip; a thud; a gasp. We repeat with little variation. You offer words meant to comfort but I scarcely hear them. You caress my bottom; you stroke my thigh. You continue, and that is all that I feel.

How unpleasant is this for you? Knowing that it will only burden me, you will never answer. But after, when I am able to look at your face again, I see the truth: while I am visibly bruised, your bruises lie deeper.

I do my best to soothe them.

Craving

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5
Twitt

I am in the kitchen, stirring a white sauce with a wooden spoon. I watch the mixture bubble around the edges and begin to thicken. I decrease the heat and stir more purposefully: you can’t rush perfection; you must build up to it.I remember his voice commanding my bottom higher. Higher, until I am on tiptoes and unsteady.

He is in the living room watching the Lions lose terribly. He groans and I imagine my legs on his shoulders as he thrusts deep.

The white sauce begins its deep undulations, a rolling boil. I stir faster, dipping the spoon deeper to gauge the mixture’s readiness. It is almost done.

Footsteps behind me, lips on my neck. I know what you’re thinking, he whispers into my hair.

Do you?, I whisper back, settling into his chest. I am over the bed as he removes his belt. I am wet, but not yet dripping.

I turn the burner off and continue stirring.

Yes, I know, he breathes as his fingers slip into the back of my pants and reach around to spread my lips. I stop stirring and wait.

I want his voice hard. I want him to grab me by the hair, steer me down the hall and over to the corner. I want to feel his hands on my ass, slapping fast.

Pinned between him and the stove, I lift my bottom and push it into his hips.

The bedroom. Now, he commands as forcefully as a hand on my neck.

I move. Behind me I hear his belt’s release and I hurry to unbutton my pants.

 

The Politics of Going Down

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14
Twitt

With his cock in my mouth, it could be argued that I’m the one in control.  My lips, tongue and throat dictate his sensations, giving me the power to make him climax.   I could tease. I could nibble, take him deep, keep him shallow, run my tongue along the sides of his balls and wait for his reaction.  I could determine whether his release is a slow torment or a frenzied finish.

As his submissive, I want him to grab my hair and thrust deep into my mouth to assert his dominance over me.  In this way, he uses my mouth.  My goal is to satisfy him in the way that he wishes, so, ultimately, the control is his. He chooses to take control; I choose to submit.

It is a matter of delivery, so when I read that giving oral is always a submissive act, I bristle.  The main argument is that it is intended only for giving pleasure to the recipient.

Is giving pleasure solely an act of submission? When he finger fucks me, keeps me on the edge of orgasm, teases my clit until it’s pounding, is he acting as a submissive?  He’s controlling my pleasure.  Although being taken to the edge is exactly what I want, he’s the one to decide when, how, and if I go over. If, in the end, both of us get what we want and need from the foreplay, am I less submissive for enjoying what he gives?

Why is it any different with oral?  He is the one between my legs,  exerting pressure, driving me wild.  He is the one making me buck and beg, just as he is the one spanking me over his knee past the point of pain and into the realms of bliss.

Between my legs, he decides when I climax, if at all.  It is no different than any other pleasure I derive:  I experience it because he wishes it.

Confide & Conquer

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14
Twitt

She nestles into his hips. She adopts his breathing. Her arms circle his arms which circle hers which circle his, until there is no top or bottom, just an endless loop of elbows and thighs, and the synchronous action of ribs and dreams.

This is how she wants them to be.

She is surprised by the way that he looks at her now, calmly; it is not how she would look at herself if she were him. His minute reaction — a so-slight furrowing of the brow, a quick twitch in his cheek — indicates that he has heard, her confession has registered.

He stands. She stands, expectant. He walks to the door, opens it, and leaves. He doesn’t have the courtesy to slam it.

Crushing. She cannot breathe. She’d take his anger, although she’s yet to see it. She’d take his insults, although he’s yet to give them. She’d take anything but the indifference of a softly closing door.

She curls on his bed, alone, and waits. Unable to sleep, she somehow manages it.

***

Awakened by his frown filling the doorway, hope escapes her in a gasp: a cane dangles from his hand.

He explains his departure: I had to think without you watching me. And why he returned: You are worth coming back for. And the consequences of her confession: This will ease your guilt and appease my anger.

His disappointment escapes in a whir. Her promises are written in lines across her cheeks.

Her hips rise; his arm falls. He breathes for her while she holds her breath. The cane meets her flesh which meets the cane which meets her flesh, until there is no judgment or error or right or wrong, only the synchronous action of confiding and conquering.

The Need

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15
Twitt
“It’s been awhile,” I whisper to the thick paddle while my finger trails its 18-inches as one might trace a lover’s sternum.  Hello, old friend.

“It has.  You remember what this can do?”

“It’s horrible. Really awful. I’m going to be bruised, aren’t I?” I’m going to cry. I’m going to fight to stay in position.  I’m going to beg you to stop. I’m going to remember this night and what it means, aren’t I?

“Yes.” He is blunt. There will be bruises.

A lump forms in my throat.

I examine the thick length of wood, an implement reserved — until now — for discipline.  I look at him, weighing the paddle against the man. I am close to saying no.  Close, but then I remember us and find the strength to stand and begin to hike up my skirt, unprompted.

Firm Hand Spanking, with Amelia Jane Rutherford

“You’re not ready for the paddle,” he says from the bed.

Hope blooms, beatific: an unasked-for reprieve.

“Yet,” he pronounces. The reprieve would be brief, I realize as he pats his thighs.  It will be brief enough that I won’t have time to change my mind.

Bring the paddle, I suggested earlier that week.

I want to face my worst adversary with you behind me.  I want the strength to submit and emerge bruised but victorious.  I want to pay for crimes not committed, stand accused yet proven innocent.  I need the paddle. I need to take what you give, just because you give it.