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Let the turkey burn

Posted at 18:09 on 23 Dec 2010 by Pandora / Blake

Tags: belt, cane, D, dominance and submission, kink, other pictures, paddle

D and I both seemed to be in odd moods last weekend. I, after being totally on top of things all week, was fragile, overtired and crashing, but desperately trying to brave it out and not be a needy little girl. Apparently it came out sounding like I was pissed off with everything, which suggests either that I'm not as good at braving it out as I think I am, or that D is better at reading me than I think he is. Or perhaps it suggests that sometimes, what I need is to be a fragile little girl. D, after all, is one of the few people I'm genuinely comfortable being small with, so I'm not sure why I was trying to fight it so hard.

Anyway, the resulting bickering was outdone by the truly electric make-up sex that came after it. Not normally a pattern D and I find ourselves in, but our emotional vulnerability lent itself to play of a remarkable rawness and intimacy.

At one point, being pushed with breathplay, my body suddenly went into an uncontrollable panic - emotionally I was alright but in three seconds I'd gone from turned on to hyperventilating, crying and shaking (and, okay, still turned on). Credit to D: he immedately stopped, held me, took my word for it when I said it was just a physical reaction and wasn't a big deal, and was perfectly happy to pick up where we'd left off as soon as I'd regained my composure. Sometimes, being pushed until I break can make me feel just as safe as my top taking care to push me without breaking me.

After a mutually satisfying, loved-up fuck he pulled three implements out of his toybox - cane, wooden paddle and belt. I'm looking at him half going WTF, we just finished, and half delighted that we aren't done yet.

"Pick one," he smiles.

Just one? I'm disappointed. I consider. We had fun with the paddle last time, so today I fancy something different. I suspect he wants to cane me - it's not an implement he plays with often, and the fact he's got it out suggests he's in the mood. But what I really want is the belt - the liquidy warmth of leather, the sharp but glowing sensation which wraps around my bottom like a caress.

"I'm surprised," he says when I make my choice (I think he was expecting me to opt for the cane), but he humours me: the belt is laid out on the bed, the other two put to one side.

Throughout a restful evening the belt is a teasing promise of what's yet to come. I was expecting to get it later that night, but tiredness overtakes us both and I fall asleep on him around 11pm.

The next day, dinner is in the oven and somehow we end up snapping at each other again. We talk through it but he needs some time to calm down, so I flop on the bed and distract myself with my netbook. Ten minutes later I hear him come in behind me. I'm wondering what mood he's in when I feel his touch, an affectionate stroke along my back. "Permission to glomp?" he asks hesitantly, and no sooner have I granted it I'm engulfed in a whole body hug. Well, there are worse ways to say sorry. I love the feel of his weight resting on me, and tell him there's no hard feelings by bumping my arse playfully against his hips from below.

Which is how I came to be facedown on the bed, jeans unbuttoned by him and tugged down over my bottom, which is lifted by a couple of strategically placed pillows and practically tingling with anticipation. The enormous mirrors alongside his bed had been making me feel self-conscious of my fuller figure all weekend, so I hid my face from them (as I had while over his knee the day before) and wondered if my over-emotional self would be able to cope with the thrashing I'd chosen.

Perhaps he was wondering the same; the first three strokes were light, testing the waters, warming us up. I breathed deeper and murmured my assent. The gentleness of his approach meant that when the harder strokes fell I lapped them up. I felt cocooned in love and security, safe to yelp and hiss through my teeth as the pain nudged against my thresholds, safe to moan into the bed when they hit that perfect sweet point of simultaneous pain and pleasure.

When the fire in my bottom was well and truly lit he paused and gave me a rub that almost made me purr. I felt like he could keep going all afternoon, except of course that dinner was still in the oven, and in fact I should have started putting the veg on ten minutes ago. "Shall we reconvene later?" he asked, not wanting to ruin the meal I'd started, but I had absolutely no desire to interrupt proceedings.

I was reminded of the Ann Summers ad I saw at Victoria station recently - a lady wearing sexy negligee and the slogan LET THE TURKEY BURN. At that precise moment I felt wholeheartedly in agreement with the sentiment. Let it burn. Dinner could wait. I had other priorities.

So D nipped out to turn the oven off, the veg was left sitting in cold water, and my bottom got cooked instead.

He re-appeared in front of me (I was still stretched out on the bed with my jeans around my knees and my arse glowing pink), grinning like a kid who's done something they shouldn't, holding up the two rejected implements. His grin widened as he waited for me to get the joke. "Pick one."

So that was his game. I hid my amusement and excitement with my best sardonic look. "Am I choosing what else I get, or am I choosing what else I get first?"

He beamed at me, delighted with his surprise and wanting to string it out, then relented. "First."

"Alright." I briefly compared the relative sensations and marking produced by belt-cane-paddle or belt-paddle-cane. The belt had left me nicely tender and the paddle is a very blunt instrument. I opted for nuance. "Cane."

He was surprised again, but given I'd thought I was done, that made two of us.

He made me thank him for the cane strokes, but not count them, so I don't know how many I got. They hurt, though, more than I'd expected after that languorous, sensual belting; every stroke a jolt of sting that fizzed and itched along the line of the welt, making me jump, making it impossible to relax. I hung onto the rail at the foot of the bed and gasped my way through a caning that pushed me more than I expected.

It had the desired effect, though. By the time he finished I was soaking wet. As he stood in front of me again and unzipped his jeans I pounced on his cock hungrily, eager and grateful. The pleasure of feeling it slide against my tongue made me close my eyes in bliss.

Skip ahead a bit (past me on my back with my head hanging off the foot of the bed so that he could slide deeper into my throat, stopping my airway - but not making me panic this time) and before long I definitely wanted to be fucked more than I wanted the paddle. I may have mentioned this aloud, because D tutted and thwarted my impatience with a reminder of earlier negotiations. "Mmm, not yet - you have to shave first, and put stockings and heels on, and all sorts of things."

He was referring to online chats in which we'd agreed that I'd shave my pubic hair for him over Christmas. I mildly prefer the appearance of trimmed hair, but I like to keep my labia and crack shaved for ease of access and silkier sensations. D has a strong preference for ladies and gentlemen who are completely shaved, a bias I'd find less forgivable if he didn't keep himself smooth in turn. It's too much faff for me to indulge all the time, but I enjoy variety, and I don't mind obliging him occasionally. If nothing else, I can usually expect to be rewarded with pleasingly enthusiastic cunnilingus.

I needed no further prompting. I jumped up to grab a razor and towel and headed to the bathroom.

It's strange - if you described this situation to me I might expect to feel somewhat indignant about having my pleasure forestalled until I'd corrected some lacking aspect of my personal grooming. Perhaps I should have been annoyed with his presumption. But as I perched on the side of the bath, shower foam mingling with the slippery evidence of my arousal, I felt supremely content. The act of revealing newly bare, sensitive flesh seemed remarkably like unwrapping a present for him, and I felt a similarly happy anticipation at the prospect of pleasing him. I hummed to myself as the razor slid delicately over my swollen labia, enjoying my awareness of the cane welts striping my arse. At that moment, cheerfully obeying his orders with a sore red bottom, I felt very, very loved.


We didn't get round to the paddle before dinner. Not that I'm complaining - events proved more than satisfactory (and so, when we eventually reheated it, did dinner). It wasn't until I was getting ready to leave that I was reminded of our unfinished business. I'd already missed one train due to not being ready in time, and was belatedly packing and trying to find my netbook case. I went into the bedroom to look for it. A little while later D came in to ask how I was getting on, and raised an eyebrow at the discovery of me on the bed, checking twitter on my netbook.

"You've packed all your things up already, yes?"

"Nearly!" I chirped, jumping up and hastily scooping up evidence to the contrary.

He looked at me. I looked innocently back, jamming netbook, socks and phone charger into my rucksack.

He picked up the paddle.

It was a fair cop. I bent over the end of the bed and lowered my jeans for my third and final dose of the weekend. I received several rapid, crisp whacks with no warm up which had an effect similar to that of a bucket of cold water. I squirmed and yelped throughout, a far cry from the submissive pleasure with which I'd taken the belt a few hours earlier. His raised eyebrows at my wimpy reactions made me wish I could turn my masochism on like a tap, but the paddling served its purpose. Suitably chastened, I tugged up my jeans and finished my packing with a smile on my face. I do like it when tops keep their promises.


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