My late night fantasies vary a lot, from things that happened that day to things that will never happen, and nor would I want them to. Recently I had a bedtime fantasy which was less escapist than my usual fare; more of an expression of intent. I found myself imagining the scene negotiation I would have with Tom next time we played. Our relationship has been very positive lately, despite being long-distance, but we haven’t had much opportunity to connect on a deeper D/S level. We’d planned for him to visit me in January and I felt ready to take things a step further. Initially I was just thinking about what to say, and then I started thinking about the ideal scene we might play. It quickly turned from idle daydreaming to a full-blown masturbation fantasy – and yes, it was hot enough to get me off.
The images in my head were of ceremony, formality. I remembered the scene trappings from our intense-but-unsustainable D/S dynamic when we first got together nine years ago. The sheepskin rug for me to kneel on at the base of the Chesterfield armchair, the leather-padded desk chair with the curved wooden arms, waiting in the centre of the room with its blindfold and restraints. Remembering the delicious, heart-pounding fear as I walked in and saw it, knowing I was about to be caned, knowing it was going to be hard.
I told him about it the next time we talked. The specific formalities of our first D/S dynamic aren’t available to us these days – too much emotional baggage – but it was the atmosphere that I yearned for. I also mentioned that I had a new butt plug and was very interested in playing with it, and experimenting with combining it with CP. The idea of that fair kept me going until he came to visit.
The day came, a leisurely Sunday. We’d both bathed and were feeling fresh and relaxed. I poured us both a glass of wine.
I asked him first what he wanted today. He said he didn’t have a specific plan; he’d like to spank me, the butt plug sounded fun, but otherwise he was happy to go with the flow. I said I wanted to capture some of that thrill and anticipation of being about to be spanked. Lately our play had all been casual, overtly consensual, and I was ready for a bit more edge, be it from ritual, ceremony or some other form of psychodrama. I was interested in butt plugs, anal inspections, embarrassment, blushing, being told what was about to happen to me.
In the end, how things played out surprised me.
He suggested that I dress up for him, and I had a fun new costume I hadn’t shown him yet, so while he gathered implements and toys I put on a ra-ra skirt, corset, seamed “spank me” stockings and ribbon heels. Hardly a serious starting point for a scene – instead I felt playful, and a bit theatrical. Tom liked the effect so much that before we started to play, he took some photos of me.
Last time we did this was for Dreams of Spanking, but this time it felt different. To my surprise, rather than triggering my “professional modelling mode” it put me into a shy and submissive headspace. I wasn’t wearing make-up and it made all the difference; I felt amateur and vulnerable in front of the camera. But I felt sexy too, and I enjoyed his appreciative gaze.
He sat on the corner of the sofa and took me over his knee. It always takes me a little while to get used to the strength of Tom’s spanking, especially since I’ve not bottomed much over the last six months to try and let some old marks heal. He was happy to adjust when he realised how much I was struggling, and after a long warm up I began to relax and enjoy it. Sooner than I expected after that, I found myself sinking deep down. He placed occasional spanks onto my thighs, and each one was like a hand on my back pushing me deeper underwater. Rather than squeaking at the intense sting I went very quiet, processing the pain and dropping down and down. When it works, thigh spanking can make me feel very submissive, and very horny. This time it was definitely working.
He was going to use the leather paddle next, but I surprised both of us by asking for the wooden hairbrush. I usually hate hairbrushes. I love to hate them, but the experience of getting spanked with one is usually noisy, difficult and upsetting. This time, for some reason, every smack just made my cunt twitch. Even on the thighs. I flopped limply over his knee and ate the pain up.
My knickers came down and he began to intersperse the spanks with stroking and touching. I was already soaking wet. He pulled my cheeks apart, stroked my arsehole in a way that made every hair on my body stand up on end, and finally lubed up the plug and slid it in. He made me move my legs apart while he continued to spank my bottom and thighs with the brush. The tops of the stockings and my suspender straps offered some protection, but the exposed skin in between felt even more sensitive.
The position also exposed the very sensitive spots on my inner cheeks and thighs. If you aren’t Tom or D, spanking me here is an instant way to make me jump up and never play with you again, but here and now it was the horniest thing that had ever happened to me.
Then I remember he increased the speed of the swats, and suddenly the wave broke over my head and I wasn’t surfing the pain any more, I was overwhelmed and I begged him to stop.
He stopped. He rested a hand on my back. I was breathing hard.
A cuddle, a sip of wine, and I was ready to continue. He helped me cover the old cane marks I wanted to protect from further damage with a Compeed blister plaster, and I knelt on the sofa for the strap. After that breather, somehow I couldn’t quite reconnect to that place of pleasure. We tried a couple of straps, my lovely long black paddle. I still had the plug in, and it was very interesting being strapped and paddled with it in place. The idea of it was super hot, but the sensations didn’t interact as much as I’d anticipated. The implement didn’t strike the handle of the plug (which had been a big aspect of my fantasy) and it was small enough that, now I was used to it, even when I clenched I didn’t feel overly full. Clearly we needed a bigger plug. When it comes to my anal kink, feeling overly full is kind of the whole point.
Blushing again, I confessed my idea of a spanking which struck or knocked the plug so I could feel it move inside me. He arranged me kneeling over the side of the sofa and began to tap it. I wasn’t being spanked at the same time, but the sensation was intense. In fact I felt like I was being punched in the arse. It sent electric jolts of arousal straight to my cunt. It was so fucking hot that I fell instantly back into that horny headspace, and in fact remembering it, I’m horny again now.
I lay face down on the sofa for the cane. This is normally my favourite, but that time it was too much, too stingy, too sharp. I couldn’t process it into pleasure. I took one set of six, maybe two, but I wasn’t enjoying the sensations, and in the end I said so.
The thing is with spanking that not-pleasure can be fine, it can be the whole point. But it’s a different experience, a different headspace from spanking-for-pleasure, when every hit feels like a caress, and usually I need a bit of a run up to get the most of out it. When my body switches me from pleasure to pain halfway through a scene, as it did now, it can be a shock. Masochism is a tricky business.
We decided to return to what we knew would work, and back over his knee I went. This time my body stayed happily in pleasure mode as he gave me a thorough spanking with hand and hairbrush. The fact he kept stopping to finger me definitely helped. Pleasure, pain, pleasure, pain, repeated hard smacks to my oh-so-sensitive thighs, and I was wriggling and wailing and limp over his lap with my legs spread wide, skin pink and hot and tingling, my head hanging by the floor, surrendering and moaning with desire.
I’m blushing again as I write this, but this scene was about overcoming shyness, embarrassment and exposure. I’ve already exposed myself once by posting the photos we took, which were never intended to be published. In the spirit of sex positivity it seems fitting that I not stop there, but tell you the rest.
I remember being fucked facedown over the sofa, knees on the floor and face smeared against a cushion. I remember admiring his cock rising big and beautiful over his strangely flat tummy. Although he lost the weight over a year ago, his new body shape still takes me by surprise and I haven’t yet tired of exploring his belly and chest with my fingers and tongue; both familiar and unfamiliar after ten years of intimacy.
I remember kneeling to suck him, teasing him and pleasuring his neck and nipples and belly and cock with my hands and my mouth; and I remember opening my throat to his hard cock and him grabbing me by the hair and standing up without pulling out until he was towering over me and I was on the floor as he shoved it more deeply down my throat. He fucked my face roughly while I looked up at him, eyes watering, and I loved him for it.
Straddling him on the sofa, leaning forward, my hair in his face and my breasts in his mouth. I reached down and worked my clit with my middle finger as his cock filled me. Grinning, I turned around and moved up and down with my back to him, enjoying the new angle, the feeling of fullness and the freedom to play with myself. His hands held my waist, helping to lift my hips before each thrust, and the moment my thigh muscles gave out and I couldn’t keep it up I laughed helplessly and both of us collapsed in giggles. Athletic pornstar I ain’t.
Then lying on my back with my stockinged legs in the air as he went down on me and gave me so many orgasms I lost count. He got me off with his tongue on my clit, then his hand inside me, then his tongue, then his hand again until I was like a rag doll, pink and floppy.
When I could breathe again I returned the favour. I was interested in fucking again, but going down on him was nice too. I asked if he wanted me to suck him off, and he did. The lovely thing was deliberately drawing it out to make him last longer, kissing up and down his shaft, swirling my tongue, playing with one rhythm and another before settling into my stride, and building him up to a long, delicious orgasm that seemed to go on forever.
Even after that he was still hard enough for me to sit on, so in the end we both got what we wanted – in more ways than one.