Thursday, September 19, 2013

29. Conflicts and Contradictions

 (In the present tense, so I can relive it. I’ve been waiting and waiting to write about this night…)

     It’s a Friday. I’ve had a bath, and honey dusted (I’ve been binging on that, lately – it happens in phases). I am wearing black stockings and garters and a simple, long black corset with extra corded lacing between the breasts. Still, I am somehow uncertain of the nature of the night. My head is a little funny, and I know he has seen it in my face, so now I am worried that it will fuck with him, because I’m not sure what’s up with me. The moon and the tides are about to have their way with me, I guess maybe it’s that. It’s a strange contradiction – a combination of not feeling quite sexy, despite being in pretty good shape at the moment, and so wanting to get laid, needing to get laid… I cannot possibly stand to wait any longer, fucked up head or not.
     I fall easily into a casual, preliminary blow job, while he lies on the bed. It’s not a hardcore endeavor, or an ego-boosting let-me-show-you-how-this-is-done, project of a blow job; I’m just enjoying myself and playing and slowly bringing my head around. I know myself and cock sucking, it’s my territory, my home field advantage, and I trust that as I fall in love with the act all over again (as I always do), it will secure all my loose pins and settle me into the space I so happily occupy. This is when I feel his hands on me. He takes me by the hips and turns me away from him, knees and elbows on the bed, and he adjusts me, pushes my knees together even, but somehow I still don’t figure it out. I think he’s going to try to right my mental state with a fearsome, uncompromising g-spot orgasm. I have been so off-kilter that I don’t see it coming at all, until the first blow lands. A spank so hard that the outline of his fingers is still on my ass as I write this, the next morning. (Post-time edit: Those handprints crisscrossed my flanks until Tuesday. Made for a couple of interesting trips to the locker room at the gym.) I am reeling. Physical pain and emotional shock immediately drowning every linear thought I might otherwise be able to register. And then he does it again. And again. And again. Broad, flat, bare-handed spanking – he must be swinging from the full length of his arm. It hurts like almighty fuck, and I am instantly so fucking grateful that if he was standing in front of me I might actually have to kiss his feet. All my misaligned gears slip right back into place and lock. The world inside my head realigns, rights itself. All my shuffled cards fall neatly back in order – a film of Fifty-two Pick-up played in reverse. I dare to look him in the face as he directs me back to his cock, and he smiles, wordless. He’s known everything, all along. Then he takes me by the back of the neck and feeds his cock into my throat.
     It’s amazing what happens to my deep throating ability, even to its technique, the moment that bolt slides home. The submissive peg drops into the hole shaped like the palm of a hand. I am marveling at it like it’s detached from my experience of it, while I continue to not breathe, to have no need of air or calculated muscle control. His cock is as far down my throat as it is long, and I can work it with the wave or a swallow, a swirl and squeeze, without effort, like those people who can pick up an instrument and just play it without trying. With the flat of his hand, he’s put me right, put me right where I need to be, and I have become a cock-swallowing magician in return. And then a garter pops. It’s a back garter, so I go up onto one knee to fix it, and he says “Don’t move.” I shift one arm to find my balance in order to stay as I am, and he scolds me hard. He’s really not fooling around tonight, don’t move means freeze. Yes, sir. He traces his hands over the stinging marks on my ass and every agonizing touch sends me further into that place I’ve been headed for, all along. The place for which he knew I was unwittingly homesick, even as I stood dressing in the bathroom, wondering what was wrong with me. His hand slides underneath me, and he begins to pinch me. I am deadly still, as he pulls and twists my clit in his fingers, grips my pussy tight in an exquisite conflict between jerking me off and making me cry out in pain, which I dare not do. I cannot help but whimper, gasp, still he gives me permission to return to his cock. I have to kiss him first, taste the inside of his mouth with mine, show him what he’s done to me, and he lets me. I gladly recover my position with my face at his crotch, but this deep throat – I cannot bring myself to suck him any other way now – is accompanied by his maneuvering of me with that wincingly tight clutch of my pussy.
     He casually finishes his drink while his cock is still in my mouth, and I automatically rise to take his glass from him and get him another. (I don’t know what it is about serving him drinks specifically, that pleases me so.) Before he’ll give me the empty though, he says “Put on your shoes.” Oh, the shoes! Excellent. These are the shoes I’d ordered the week before, and had been waiting for, the night of the tie-side panties. They are completely out of character for me (except that somehow they’re not), and I love them. They are five inch heels, and all-over thin, vertical, black and white stripes, but for the heel itself which is black velvet, to match the piping. Around the top line opening and along the cross strap, is a ribbon of red lace. I almost never wear red (absolutely never, outside of the bedroom), and I don’t often like lace, and shoes this loudly girlish are not the kind of thing I would usually even consider. Again, I love them. He had seen them the night after they arrived, accompanied by the wide black garter belt, black stockings with red back seams, and a white and black polka dot, halter-top bustier, as far out of character for me as the shoes. I had been so hesitant to pull the trigger on that outfit that I’d left the tag on and tucked into the side of my boob, in case I had to bail out immediately and return it for feeling ridiculous. Like the tie-side panties, it turned out not to be ridiculous at all, and I’d ended up excusing myself in the middle of three hours of hot, fucked-up debauchery to cut that tag and enthusiastically fling it into the trash can. So my shoes go on with a certain amount of ceremony, and I’m about to enjoy the hell out of my traipse to the kitchen, when he stops me again.
     “Bring me the riding crop, before you go.” As you wish.
     I get to walk by a full length mirror while going to fill drinks, and I remember why I love corsets. They take the fun-house out of the mirror. I am a fairly thin woman and I’ve put on some good, carefully placed curves at the gym lately, but even so there are times when my head is wrong, that cause mirrors to show me my fears instead of my reflection. Even though I don’t even wear them tight (just tight enough to feel good), that can’t happen in a corset. So now for the first time since my early not-feeling-quite-sexy, I’m getting the full effect from hair to corset to pink-smacked ass to shoes, and even though I don’t like blondes, I’d fuck me in a heartbeat. That’s a good feeling.
     I come back and sit on my feet next to him, to wait. My shoes and the lace on them are digging in and prickling against the underside of my stinging ass. He takes the riding crop and uses it to spread my knees apart, light smacks in the place of words. Once he has me where he wants me, the smacks cease to be light. He focuses his blows on my pussy, then more specifically my clit, then my inner thighs and that high divot that sits at the line between thigh and snatch, and back again. He hits me until the flesh between my legs is hot and bright, then he strokes me with the crop, rubbing the loop of leather against my pussy, prodding my clit until it quickens and moves against his caress. He does this until my whole lower body is working back on the crop, and then he puts it back to its intended use and the pain of it striking is heightened by the pleasure it brought. Harder and harder the smacks fall, faster and faster until I’m writhing with the pain of it instead of the pleasure, and then again he’s stroking and swirling and brushing and patting and the fire of distress is confused with the fire of rising climax. Beating then teasing, beating then teasing, he does it until I shake, then before I come he shifts and concentrates on strikes to my shoulders, my chest, the tops of my breasts. In between these tight slaps he trails the riding crop over my skin, lightly caressing the flesh between the welts he raises, and the sensation is like an electric current from my body to the dark pockets of my brain where sex lives and grows like vines that insinuate their way into every other thing, every conflicting response made no longer contradictory. He pauses at that extra sensitive spot where my neck meets my right shoulder, that bonus erogenous zone that can suddenly tighten my nipples and wet my quim in even the least sexual circumstances. And with the shaft of the crop, he canes me in one deep, carefully placed stripe. This is a long-established game I’ll have to play for the next week, wherever I go. He leaves a mark on me that cannot go unnoticed, and that I cannot hide. To any person with enough moxie to ask me about it, I have to tell the truth, no matter who it is or what the situation.
     For a moment he leaves off torturing me, and instructs me to choose one toy for my pussy. I hesitate though, and in a moment he’s raining blows on me again, everywhere he’s touched before, and I cannot think.
     “I’m waiting for an answer…” But the waiting does not forestall the crop, and amid strikes that come at random, in varying speeds at unpredictable targets, I remember my rediscovery of the cone.
     “Good choice.” He tells me that I am free to get comfortable, if I can, so freshly beaten, and I settle back against all the little fires still burning in my flesh, wanting nothing more than for it to continue. Which it does. He takes the crop to my breasts, but it’s an overbust corset, so he has to bring it down hard to make it felt. The sight and the sound of that stir more of the vines in my brain, but when he notes it out loud I am incapable of denying him, so I unlace the cords between my breasts and expose them for him. He answers with an unyielding squeeze to each of them, until they spill over and wet his hands and his fingers. He takes the crop to them again, and I’m splashed in the face each time it meets a nipple. I am leaning back now, with my knees raised, so he shifts his attention to the backs of my thighs. Between cracks of the crop he’s trailing the loop across tingling marks to my abdomen (which was unmarked until now), my clit, striking and stroking me there again, to my outer thighs which he stripes to match the inners, the very last fraction of pussy – the undersnatch (mother of fuck that hurts), but always returning to my clit, which is smacked to blushing. There’s a transformation going on in me now, as I lie back and feel a milky trickle run outward from my breast, over its curve and into my underarm, a redefinition of what constitutes pain, and I am exploring the other side of it. Very like loving and fucking can cease to be two ingredients and fuse to one thing, pain and pleasure are losing their boundaries. I can’t find the places where one of them used to begin and the other end. I’m lost in the sensation of it when he speaks.
     “You’d better put that toy in front of your pussy or I’m just going to keep beating the shit out of it.” Done. But he sees my hands go behind me as I arch onto the cone. He gets up and returns quickly with a wrist to collar restraint; wide leather cuffs bind my hands behind my back, wide leather collar at my throat, D-rings link both to a wide leather strap that goes straight down my spine. Now I am bound and writhing against the cone, feeling the vibrations in my pussy comingle with the burning marks across my flesh everywhere I move, and the bonds that hold me chafing against them.
     I love to be bound. I love to struggle against it, just to feel how impossible is my escape. My husband watches and torments me. Periodically he reaches in with his fingers to play with my clit, my labia, amid the buzzing rubber pressed against it, to feel the wet heat inside me, to bring me closer and closer to orgasm, and then he strikes me again with the riding crop, just on all those same places that were about to tip me over the edge. It goes on forever. Now I have a new conflict somehow ceasing to be contradictory: Rising frustration at being repeatedly brought to and then denied orgasm for so long, combined with the total relishing of every moment spent in my skin, in this position. I am actively thinking about how fucking brilliant this night is (and not for the first time), when he leans over me and spits down onto my clit, from above. I cry out at both the act and its flawless execution, as the wet tendril slides down my pussy to my ass, and then at the sensation as he falls on me with fingers, crop and mouth. He assaults my nipples, then he sucks on them, pinches my clit, pulls at my pussy, now he adds lube and watches me slide. Twice as I get close again I have to beg him to increase the setting on my toy, both times he obliges me and then brings the crop down hard again, while he plays me through rising vibrations and pulses to the highest possible steady buzz. And finally I crest over one of those long, crashing climaxes that roll over you and over you, and he reaches in and seamlessly bangs me into a g-spot orgasm that leaves a puddle under my ass.
     He lets me suck his cock again then. I am still bound, and still feeling the restraint of being bound, pulling against the cuffs and strap and feeling it constrict my throat, with his cock in it. I am trying to make myself add more to it than the deep throat, reminding myself that there are infinite things you can do to a cock without the use of your hands, but all I want is to gag myself on him. He takes me by the waist and pulls me up onto his cock and I ride him slippery, closing off my own breath with my bonds. Technically I guess the result is an orgasm combination of vaginal and g-spot, a #2/3, but the sensation of it is in my whole body now, every part of me that has been licked, sucked, spanked, pinched, stroked, squeezed, whipped, and fucked, and every corner of my brain is filled with it, so it’s not the rise and drop-off that gives climax its name; it’s a constant thing that takes me over (just with girl-cum all over it), while I’m listening to the wet slap of him against me.
     He unbinds me, and steers me onto my feet, to straddle him. I don’t even know if he does it with words or with his hands - they act the same upon me. So now I am standing over him (in those shoes), and he lowers me not quite all the way down. He slow-fucks me from below like this, as he often does when I’ve completely lost control of my id, forcing me to hold still, supporting myself, and do nothing but take his cock. I cannot look at his face for long like this, without losing my composure, so soon I’m watching him fuck me, instead. I watch his cock disappearing into my cunny, fascinated at how it stretches and cores me. I lean back then, and show it to him, as he’s slow-driving his full length into me. I have to touch him, have to touch him touching me that way, slide my fingers against my clit and his cock at the same time. I sit up onto him and reach behind me to work his balls, but then I can’t help it, I have to feel him fucking me with my fingers. So I tip forward onto my knees and force two fingers inside me with him, stretching myself wide, so that they stroke his frenulum as he strokes into me, my thumb and other fingers squeezing him at the base of his cock. I love to play in the fucking like that, like a little kid will put her hands in her food and feel it squish between her fingers.
     He asks me to suck him again – asks, mind you. I reply with “I will do anything, anything at all,” and mean every word. Yes, I deep throat him again, but with that question that wasn’t a command, I’ve got a little control back (as well as the use of both of my hands), so I also start to make up a new maneuver I’m going to call Top & Bottom, where what’s happening to the shaft of his cock in my hands is seemingly disassociated with what’s happening to its head, in my mouth. Except that it’s not. This gives me a little sense of false authority, and I venture a little further into a game of My Cock. You want to know what it’s like to have a cock, don’t you? Just for once? I leave his cock drenching, slippery wet, and climb onto his thighs, facing him. My pussy is as wet as it’s ever been, and I slide it up against him, splitting my labia with the trunk of him. He’s big enough that even now there’s enough of his cock standing up between us that it wouldn’t be small even if it really was mine, and I pretend it is. I jerk off like I’ve seen him do it, like I imagine I would want to feel it, if the illusion was true. It seems to amuse the hell out of him to see me get off like this, so he allows me to play my little game, but there’s a wet quim rubbing against him at the same time, and though I’m getting myself off like that, as well as at the sight of it, I’m also well-versed in jerking him off and his cock is wet and rigid in my hands… I know that when a thing is working, when the orgasm comes, not to stop what’s bringing it about in favor of anything else. I know this. Still, once the first jet of come erupts, I cannot keep my mouth off of him. I’m still working him with my hands, but I have to close the head of his cock in my mouth, wrap him in my lips and tongue and suck the rest out of him.
     To do what you shouldn’t do, love what you hate, crave the denial of what you want, trade pussy for cock, pleasure for pain… I think it’s conflict and contradiction that make us human. Embracing it makes us free.

(Let's go live for once, shall we? )

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