Posted at 22:53 on 19 Feb 2009 by Pandora / Blake
I've been intending to write all week about the lovely Valentines weekend I had with the boys. About being surprised by D. when we got home from a delicious dinner, encountering him in the living room with the paddle, the yardstick and the cane already laid out ready to use. Being kissed by him. Told to bend over with my hands on the sofa, and warmed up until my whole body was humming and my knees were buckling.
He let me lay myself over the arm of the sofa, resting my weight so I could close my eyes and let the sensations wash over me. I wriggled and moaned and arched my hips. When he went next door I stayed where I was put, all my usual impatience drained away, content to wait and see what he had in store for me.
I didn't recognise the soft, shivery sound that came next. It wasn't until I felt the ice-cold tip of it draw a silvery trail on my sensitised skin that I whimpered with recognition. Swords have been part of my kink for years, and I hang onto every word when D. talks about holding past lovers at swordpoint, threats and coercion and cold steel pressing against the vulnerable hollow of her throat. But I've never felt one before. He teased me, slowly dragging the sharp point over the curve of my ass. I could have melted. When he started to use the flat, tapping it with increasing force, I was so turned on it took a while to register that the strokes weren't really having much effect. The blade held no sting at all; even when he used more force the impact wasn't as interesting as I'd hoped. But the kiss of the point, leaving trails of promise on my skin, made me tremble with desire.
The next night Tom and I went out to a fetish club. It was a wild night. Lots of kisses, lots of friends and lots of unexpected encounters. I didn't get as much private time with him as I'd have liked, but we stole moments where we could and I think he still managed to give the crowd a show.
When we first arrived, dropped off our things in the cloakroom and fixed our outfits, the first thing we did was find the dungeon. It was crowded already, but there was a leather-padded trestle in one of the alcoves which I quickly found myself bent over. Once I was in position my head was mere inches from the randoms on the sofa, who weren't really into it; I heard laughter and the comment " ... a bit too much like grammar school!" I closed my eyes, willing away the spectators, focussing on the space containing Tom and me.
He started to cane me. Lightly, at first, with a thin crook-handled cane. I knew he wouldn't be able to hear my whimpers and I was oddly reluctant to make a fool of myself in front of the sofa people, so I shut my eyes and focussed all my attention on the sensations, trying to communicate my responses to him physically. I tossed my head, wiggled on the trestle, twisted away from the harder strokes and, when every so often the pain jolted pleasure down my nerves like electricity, rose towards them. After each set of twelve he checked in on me, bent his face to mine to hear anything I needed to say, stroked my hair. I didn't need to say anything. I was fine. I was in the zone.
I can't remember how many strokes he gave me. 48? They weren't hard; just enough to set my head spinning and nerves tingling. Afterwards we found another couple to play with, and I held hands with a gorgeous girl as her partner cropped her through her latex. I caught her face and kissed her as she writhed under the strokes.
Later, I found myself kneeling on one of the seats, face to the wall, my skirt hitched up around my waist. I could only imagine the full moon of my bottom as it must appear to people walking by. Tom attended to it with hand, wooden hairbrush, and the cane again. I floated in darkness, aware of nothing but his touch, each stinging impact going up like a flare. I squirmed away from the stinging, spanking brush, but each smack illuminated our connection, keeping me linked to him from my shadowy half-world with my face to the wall. The half-heard remarks of passers by drifted past my consciousness. I flushed when the couple sitting next to us commented on my bottom, and Tom responded, discussing me as if I wasn't there.
It was easy for me, last weekend, to close my eyes and trust that they would take me somewhere worth travelling to. The journey wasn't an arduous one. The pain was welcome; it represented their attentiveness, their gift of love to me. I squirmed my appreciation. And, afterwards, showed my gratitude in all the ways I know best.
This isn't the only time of year I feel so cherished, by any means. But it's nice to have the excuse.