There's so much I want to tell you, but my head is so full I don't know where to begin.
I'll start with yesterday. We didn't make it to the kinky party in the end. Tom was held at work for a series of frustrating and bizarre reasons, and by the time he got home he was (understandably) too exhausted to contemplate getting a train.
I'd been waiting for him all day; not in a needy way, but I liked the idea of spending the day relaxing in his bed, steeping in the memories of the last few intense days and not pushing myself to leave the house or do anything, really, apart from relax and recover. Home was where work and stress resided and I wasn't ready to face it alone quite yet. So I lazed in bed and read, cooked myself breakfast, drank juice and chatted to his housemates. After I was up, Jimmy came home from his first session as a pro spankee, drained but enjoying the straightforward sense of achievement. We swapped stories and I lent him my aloe vera gel.
When Tom got home that evening, I was in bed, reading and dozing. I was sleepy, but also much more relaxed than I've been for most of the last two months. I'm still, however, thinking in film ideas, and during my bath I'd come up with a concept for an erotic D/s clip. While I was enjoying my bathtime fantasy I'd mentally cast Tom as the top, so I showed him the notes I'd written up on my netbook:
Aphrodite rising from the foam
Slow pan/closeups of girl in bath, shot moving up her legs and body to reveal she is tied with wrists above her head probably to something outside the bath (towel rail?) with her feet at the tap end. Ideally a clawfooted bath long enough to let her stretch out. She is twisting dreamily in the water, covered in bubbles.
Her Master comes in while she is dozing. He is carrying a thin, whippy straight-handled cane; almost a switch. He leans over her in the bath and strokes it over her body. She does not respond much at first, dozing and dreaming, but as he flicks it slowly up her inner thigh she opens her eyes and looks at him. She murmurs, whimpers as he continues to whip her lightly, all the while looking into her eyes. As the strokes get harder she protests a little, not seriously. In response he takes firmly her by the throat, tells her she is his. He switches her breasts, fondling them roughly between strokes with a wet and soapy left hand. She arcs in the water, surrendering.
When her breasts are hot and stinging, and she is flushed with steam and sweat, he carefully twists her onto her front and tells her to keep her bottom lifted out of the water. He canes her slowly, methodically, flicking foam with the tip. Her bottom is a red globe, rising smoothly out of the water and surrounded by white bubbles. She moans and struggles in the slippery bath, her head pillowed on one of her bound arms and her feet kicking. He grabs her ankles in one hand and continues to cane her with the other. When he has whipped her to his liking, he pulls her head back by her hair and kisses her deeply. His hand rubs suds over her welted bottom and he reaches beneath her to caress her breasts...
Tom liked the idea, and we spent a little while debating whether we should try to persuade AJR to model for it (because she looks so pretty covered in bath bubbles, as the above photo from Northern Spanking demonstrates) or whether we should cast ourselves because then the ending could get as steamy as we liked.
I mean, okay, I'm not daft. I knew that showing him my writing would put him in a certain mood, just as I knew that when I asked if he could put aloe on my bruises from the shoot, it would inevitably result in a spanking for me. We were both tired, but we were attuned to each other after the intensity of the last few days, and throbbing with sexual tension. I was still sleepy from my doze after the bath, and physically worn out: when he arranged me over his knee I flopped on either side as if there was no strength in my body. I was so dozy I can't remember how he began: with his hand? With the little switch/cane that had featured in my fantasy? If he didn't start with it he certainly moved onto it quickly, playing it over my skin in tiny, precise strokes that spoke to his training as a fencer.
I remember that I had been longing for him so acutely, all the time I'd been at home on my own, that I never resisted. I remember that all the desire to indulge ourselves alone, at home, which had built up while we were shooting exhaled and found release. I know he was gentle, very gentle, wary of my bruises and my physical fatigue, building me up oh-so-slowly with a delicate flickering over my sensitised cheeks. I moaned, I gasped, I purred, I arched my back, every movement slow and languorous.
I can't remember what order things happened next. He arranged pillows for me in the center of the bed, and I eased myself over them, hands clasped above my head. He continued to switch me for what felt like hours, barely hurting me, dancing the tip over my skin in a pattern that awakened every inch of flesh. When the harder strokes came, on the tops of my thighs and the curve of my bottom, I welcomed them, panting as I lifted my hips for more. He stroked my bottom continually, hand and switch swapping in an endless caress of pleasure and pain.
He got the riding crop out and gave me twenty-four harder strokes, swapping sides every so often and wrapping several stinging strokes around my left cheek, which had been less touched by the shoot. At first he asked me to count the strokes, and thank him for each one: I did so quietly, gratefully, without the usual pause between the stroke and my response. My body arced and twisted as the sensations increased but I never once cried out in fear. Time seemed to lengthen as I floated in a haze of dark, brimming over with peacefulness and trust. He paused after the first six to rub my sore bottom, and in those long seconds I drifted away completely, into another universe, populated by deep currents and sparks of light. When he asked me to remind him of the count so far I was dragged back to my body with a wrench. "Six, sir." I inhaled. Exhaled. "Sir, is the counting intended to keep me in my body?"
He paused, and I sensed him extending his awareness, understanding my meaning. "No," he said, very quietly, after a while. "I will keep the count for you. You may fly free, my beloved."
I rocked on the ocean of the next eighteen, floating with no resistance as wave after wave crashed over me. The kinetic energy of the impact was immediately transformed to something else, some other electricity that crackled through my body before earthing itself in a place I could not name.
Ironically, of course, after that one quick conversation, I didn't fly away completely. I didn't enter that trippy, trance state where my sensory experience ceased to be bodily at all; where pain ceases to register as pain and is absorbed by the body as some other kind of energy. But I was close. As I think back, the primary sensory memory is not of lying in that bed, but of being suspended among starfields. At the last few hard strokes, my spine twisted and my head snapped back, but I barely made a sound.
Afterwards - or maybe before, I honestly don't know - he turned me over and lightly whipped my breasts and nipples with the switch. My whimpers turned to moans of purest pleasure. As he moved between my legs and my feet curled around his head, he picked the switch back up and continued to whip my breasts as he entered me. I remember being impressed by his co-ordination, just before the sensations overwhelmed me completely and I abandoned myself to his steady hands.
Now I'm home. I miss him so much. Our relationship has been re-forged in the fires of this week, and after sharing so much together being away from him hurts like a physical ache. I'd already decided to write this before he asked me to, but because he did this is dedicated to him.
For my hard-working, talented, beautiful Sir, from his devoted and wanton wench. x
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