Tuesday, February 25, 2014

34. Alright, where the hell was I?

     Ah yes, the Harlequin was still new. I still bore the marks from the first night we’d had it. They were still fresh enough to be red and purple… I didn’t think it was a go, this night. Usually there’s a build-up, a consensus, whether it’s spoken or not. Usually there’s an atmosphere about the house and an undercurrent to our interactions. On this night there were no outward signs at all. Just out of nowhere, there was music playing and our ever-growing slide show collection of erotic stills on the TV. He told me to get out the new flogger, and I brought it to him, handed it over while trying to arrange my expression to contain and suppress the seventy-five different emotions that were suddenly drag racing through my bloodstream. He gave me several preliminary cracks against my legs with it, and said “Mercy, right?” My new safe word ... I went off to do my preparations like a roller coaster virgin packing for Six Flags.
     I came back from my initial groundwork (I didn’t want to stay away for long, as I wasn’t sure how much slack was in the proverbial leash, tonight), to find that he had the ropes out. Sweet mother of fuck, it was a rope night. I really hate surprises, except when I really don’t. In fact, now that I think about it, that edge of uncertainty that I can’t tolerate in the rest of my life is precisely what spins me up and makes my breath flutter, in the internal ritual that begins the releasing of my will. Turning my volition over to him, begins with not knowing. With loving not knowing.
     He chose the dark red ropes, and began with a beautiful breast wrap. The basic function of it was standard, but he made up the design of it as he went along. I love it when he experiments like this, appraising and adjusting for aesthetics on the fly. There’s a casual concentration on his face that has everything and nothing to do with me, at the same time. It’s sexy as hell, and rope work is the only thing that brings it out. The breast-bind was absolutely lovely. I wanted to dress to go with it, to set it off (and to officially make myself complicit in the turn this night had taken), but I didn’t want enough clothing to inhibit whatever other ropish inspiration might come to him. Panties can be enhanced by ropes, or they can be completely in the way. High heels can anchor a tie really effectively, but they also rule out the feeling of a tight wrap around the arch of the foot or a single cord pulled between the toes… I decided that my good, black-on-black corset was minimal enough to not get in the way, and nice enough to make me feel dressed up for the evening all on its own, so I went with that and nothing else. It was the last decision I made that night.
     I went to get us drinks, and stopped at the mirror in the hallway to admire the rope work and the effect of black against wine red. When I returned, he put one finger on the bedspread and said “Put your face here.” I still don’t know if it was punishment for tardiness or for pride or simply for his pleasure, but the result was the same. He’d been maintaining that detached air of suavity and nonchalance, like he had one foot on either side of the line, up until that moment. He stepped into the night for real then. With my face down, my ass up, and my arms over my head, he stood behind me and almost in a frenzy, he flogged my back, my ass, my underarms, and my pussy. When I couldn’t keep from squirming, he tied my feet together and flogged me harder.
     He put me on my back then, leaning slightly against the headrest, and tied my legs together. He takes his time with this kind of thing, for the sake of pleasing lines and symmetry, intricacy and function. And then he lifted my legs high and straight, and secured the live ends of the rope to the binding at my chest. I was piked, and I was bound. My pussy and my ass were exposed and vulnerable, and he made a point of noting this for me with a slow dose of hot spit dropped from above, that landed on one and slid down into the other. He moved out of my sight for a moment, letting me feel the sensation and the totality of my restraint, the tactile indulgence of rope sunk into flesh, then he picked up the Harlequin again, and let me feel that rope in my flesh as well.
     He had access to the underside of my ass from above in that position, and he took full advantage of it. Saved his upswings for the backs of my legs, and swung down on my wet pussy and my ass and the soles of my feet, as punctuation between them. One crack on my underside landed with such force and precision that it was a line of fresh pain all night, never seeming to dull or fade out. When he put down the flogger, he did it to pick up my pink glass plug, and told me in accurate, murmuring detail what I was feeling as he worked it slowly into my ass. He lifted me to sitting then, so I could feel it under my own weight, and detached my legs from my chest so that he could reach his fingers into my crotch, spreading his spit and my own wetness over the bright spots of pain he’d left there, and squeezed my breasts until runners and droplets of milk seeped into the ropes that bound them. He bent me at the knees to gain access to the toy in my ass, manipulating it (and me) from underneath, while he watched my face for every trace of arousal and fear.
     He did not let me come. As soon as he had me close, he untied my legs and sent me for fresh drinks. I asked if I could stop for eyeliner, after I got them. There is no armor in the world like black eyeliner, and I knew if I could have that, I could let go of everything else. When I came back, a little less trembly and sliding around the plug still in my ass, he had out the “switch” (which thankfully isn’t really a switch – I can’t bear that level of sting), the riding crop, and one of his long, bamboo poles. He put me on my knees first, arms over my head, and lay stripes across my shoulders, front and back. My stomach and lower back were still corseted, but he left marks I wouldn’t be able to hide everywhere between its top and my neck. The riding crop was small and precise enough to work around and in between the ropes forcing my breasts out between them, and he paid special attention there, and to the top of my back and shoulders. When he was satisfied, he lay the bamboo sideways across the bed, and put me down onto my back, above it – on top of all the stinging red lines he’d just placed so carefully. He placed my feet on it, wide apart, and with multiple, heavy wraps around my ankles and then under and around the pole on both sides of each, he lashed me to it like it was a spreader bar. My knees were bent, so that the pole was just lower than my ass, and he took my wrists next, and lashed them to it on the outside of my feet. Squirm at all then, and the pole pressed against the flange of the toy in my ass, forcing it further into me.
     I assume that it was the shaft of the crop that he used to put lines down across the fronts and inners of my thighs; I couldn’t look, at the time. The pain was immense. The marks were tight and deep and they lasted many, many days. He also took the switch, which is stingier, to my pussy, and repeated the gravity propelled drop of spit-from-above, so the slaps were wet and splashy. He beat the ever-loving fuck out of me, and every writhing motion I couldn’t control affirmed the rope and the pole and the plug that occupied me. Then he produced the Hitachi Magic Wand. We rarely bust that thing out. I hate it every bit as much as much as I like it, so just when I’d given in to the beating, he’d managed to reanimate my fear and I had to give in to that, too. It’s a near impossible thing that happens to your head, when you have to resolve yourself to being afraid. Fear is a thing that, by its very nature, should prevent you from coming to grips with it. Under regular circumstances, getting used to a situation in which you are afraid, generally lessens the fear. If you accept the fear, you undermine it in doing so. You can abide it though, consent to it, without losing it. The crossover is just sort of in another place. If you can let go of where you usually live in your head, you can take up residence at the intersection.
     For a long time, he alternated beatings with near-coming and that low murmur of profane suggestion and narration that does to my head exactly what his hands do to my body. It purrs around the edges of my brain, flicking switches as it goes, and he was keeping it up until the internal chaos that was pleasure was just topping the internal chaos that was distress, and then he’d trade the horrible, buzzing weapon of undeniable orgasm for the crop or the switch or the flogger and I’d fall down another rabbit hole. It sounds like I’m over-describing it, but it was just like that, and it was endless.
     Then he let me come, and it wasn’t endless after all.
     He untied me from everything but the breast binding and put me back on my knees. He flogged my breasts and my shoulders again, not hard enough to make me fight escape but just to reignite the fires he’d put into them before, and took the riding crop to my underarms (fucking hell, that’s another kind of pain). When he stopped, I couldn’t keep myself from kissing him – I didn’t try; there was no time or thought, I just fell into him. He let me kiss him, he seemed amused by it, and didn’t stop me from moving straight to cock sucking from there. That didn’t last long, though. Pretty quickly he demanded my pussy on his cock, and when he got it, he began fucking my ass with the toy while I was fucking him. I got three vaginal orgasms, one on top of another, out of that. The second and third were both super-twos, and the last one went on for so long that it was like losing consciousness. Right on the heels of the clitoral orgasm he’d pulled from me with the evil/not at all evil Hitachi wand, the first one was like coming home. Like a conclusion. The second one surprised me – sneak attack before I’d come all the way down off the first – and then surprised me again when it went over the top and exploded through my whole body. The third, well, like I said, it was very like blacking out, only if the blackness was a sea of pleasure. It was like drowning in orgasm.
     It’s at this point that I reached that stage where I would do anything at all. This is an interesting point to reach. It always leaves me a little embarrassed afterward, but it’s always worth it. Anything. He could whip out Japanese tentacle porn and start giving directions when I’m like this, and I would throw myself into it like I’d been waiting my whole life. My skills would be lacking though – not only for obvious reasons but also because I am fully out of control at this stage. I am a creature of emotion. I have blown the fuse on the frontal lobe of my brain. I am a mess. A flailing, devoted, probably crying, enthusiastic, madly in love, oversexed mess. Fortunately, he didn’t whip out any Japanese tentacle porn.
     What he did was slow fuck me. At the same time, he was maneuvering the toy in my ass – not for my benefit, but for the sensation it was giving him, with his cock in my pussy. It did benefit me though, of course, and the doubly penetrative stroking kept me right on that brink of control that I was struggling so hard to maintain. When he ordered me to suck my come off of him, I still wasn’t right in the head. I was incapable of precision and intricacy, so it was a long, happy, non-technique-specific cock sucking, with lots of deep throating and drenching volumes of spit. I used various exit strategies from a wide mouthed withdrawal, one finger pressing his cock against the full length of my tongue, to tight suction right up over the tip. I used a pulse from the back of my throat while I had him at depth, pulled out through a suicide squeeze. I played with the good gag and pushed through to various feats of past-gag heroics. (That game is particularly fun when I have crested the peak of anything at all. Then it’s not just that I would do anything, it’s that suddenly I can do anything. Does miracles for the ego.) I got both of his balls in my mouth and slid my tongue up behind them as far as it would reach. I played spiderwebs with the spit between my fingers and the head of his cock. He was still playing with the toy in my ass, and at least twice as I pulled his cock out of my throat in one way or another, he slid his fingers into me to my g-spot, and made me girl-come all over his hand and wrist.
     The threshold move, the brink before deep throat, was getting notable response from him, so I started alternating between that and some tip tricks, now that my head was starting to come around enough to accomplish them. I did a little exploring of that older sister move I’d been working on and made up another thing with more hand and just a tease of lips and tongue, between sinking him back to pop against that ridge at the top of the throat. Then, on a whim, I picked up the Hitachi wand and stroked it just from the tip of his cock to back along the frenulum. He let me get away with it, so I added my mouth to his cock, at the same time. You have to be ready for it, if you’re going to take a vibrator of that strength basically to your face, but it was fun and effective. I used generally the same motions I usually do, just substituting the wand for one of my hands, or using my tongue as I would have used my hand and placing the wand where my tongue would have been.
     I’ve been over-stimulated by that wand before and I didn’t want to do it to him, so I backed off into the good old blow job while he found the toy in my ass again, and then my g-spot again, and again. And as I finished him off between the ripe peach, the dragonfly, and something I’m afraid I’m simply going to have to call bubbles, I began to wonder again if I should actually start compiling all these little techniques and ideas onto a page. The whole room was a steamy mess and smelled of hot sex, and I lay back into it, against the stinging welts on my shoulders, thinking Would anyone buy it? Would You? Should I do it?


(“Mercy, right?”)