Tom and I recently enjoyed a much-needed short break with kinky friends Zille and Duncan in their secret northern hideaway. We were only there for three full days, nowhere near enough time to do half the things we would have wanted. But amid all the hillwalking, visits, daytrips and usual holidayish things, we did find time for one evening of deviance.
Neither Tom nor I are minded to play with people we don’t share some connection with. The first time we met Zille and Duncan, we sensed the potential for more; but that Wednesday in particular had been one of those perfect days. Since hiking up onto the Fells that afternoon, sharing that exhilarated, almost spiritual appreciation for the beautiful landscape around us, talking all the way up and all the way down, it was as if the game had been raised. I don’t know about you, but few things put me into the mood for erotic adventures more than energetic outings in the glorious outdoors.
I think I knew all along that Zille and I would need to kick things off. It’s difficult for male tops: not wanting to seem overbearing or too full on, not wanting to intrude on the other’s territory. Besides, there had been that recent comment conversation wherein Zille invited (nay, begged!) me to spank her as hard, as fast and as long as I could. Despite that, for reasons of experience or confidence or I don’t know what, it was me that ended up over Zille’s lap first.
There’s a mode, and I think it’s the perfect warm-up mode, where you just feel delighted to be there. For me, it tends to manifest in flirtatious wriggles and giggles, small moans and cheeky glances. Zille can spank hard enough – harder than I can – but she didn’t spank me too hard (even during the infamous double-palm-drum!); it was the perfect appetiser, leaving me wanting more.
I honestly couldn’t decide whether I wanted to stay over her lap or swap places, but I couldn’t deny my pleasure at seeing her lovely form laid out for me. In terms of pain, she took everything I had to give. I didn’t have the strength to push her, so I made do with sneaky tricks: alternating between spanks and light caresses; pulling the skin at the base of her bottom tight for mean little smacks. Her flirtation took on a tone challenging enough that at one point (I can’t remember what she’d said to goad me) I grabbed her around the waist and laid into her as hard as I could, but even then her giggles gave the clear impression that this lady’s taste for receiving went far deeper than my ability to give.
It was a bit embarrassing doing this, for the first time, in front of Tom; I quickly began to feel as if I should hand the reins over to him, who I knew would have much more of an impact. (“You seem to be doing fine from where I’m sitting,” he said the first time I offered, prompting a particular glow of affirmation unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced.) When I did invite him to take over, I eagerly arranged myself on the sofa beside Zille. I didn’t pay much attention to the smacks I received, however. All of my focus was on him and her. I remember being enthralled by watching him slow everything down, dealing her these mammoth, unreal smacks that connected with her bottom so hard I wondered that their flesh didn’t fuse together, and watching Zille’s quietly blissed out face as she just absorbed them and arched her back for more.
I went over Duncan’s knee for a lovely spanking which left me purring, and although I was half-watching the play unfold between Tom and Zille I was so distracted I honestly couldn’t tell you what they were doing. I do remember deciding that clearly what needed to happen next was double canings. I hadn’t quite planned for Zille to go first, but after a brief negotiation between Tom and Duncan as to who went on the backhand side, there I was, holding her hands as she knelt on the armchair and bent over the back.
Zille takes a caning like I dream of taking them. She surrenders unquestioningly, her mouth forming eloquent Os, each impact sending waves through her body. I occupied that delicious contradictory space of stroking her hair, comforting her, murmuring in her ear all the things I’d want to hear (good girl, that’s it, yes, brave brave girl, well done, well done) at the same time as glancing at Tom and Duncan with hunger in my eyes, egging them on, silently urging them to hit her harder, harder. She clutched at me and gasped and moaned, and the energy crackling between us was sizzling with power.
By the time I took her place I was already high. Tom’s eyes were galaxies of meaning, Duncan was a solid rock to my right, but as I leaned forward and offered my bottom to their canes Zille occuped all of my attention. As they laid stroke upon stroke, her eyes never left mine. I felt like everything in me poured out through my gaze, my hands, into her and back again: wide-eyed, sweat beading on our brows, as she hushed and soothed and encouraged me. Every stroke reverberated through both of us, and the fire in her eyes intensified everything, lifted me above it. Tom was caning me hard now, really hard, perhaps as hard as I’ve ever been caned; and my consciousness floated in the sparkling pools of Zille’s eyes; and the sensation of the thick cane imprinting itself on my buttock seemed soft, faraway. I could feel rattan meeting the depths of the muscles there, but the connection seemed no more forceful than the gentle pressing of a finger. And all the time there was Zille’s face, Zille’s hands, Zille’s eyes, projecting empathy and compassion and love and strength, buoying me up, keeping me in flight.
I have never been as high as I was that moment. It was better than acid, better than Ecstacy. I think, halfway through that caning, I told Zille I loved her, and in that instant my love for her filled the world. I don’t think I would have declared anything so dramatic (certainly not so soon) if not in the strange flights of that journey. But one of the reasons I flew that high was that I knew she’d understand.
The next day, the black and blue stripes adorning my bottom were a testament to how far we’d travelled. I had not let Tom take me so far for some time, and the after-effects were delicious, a slow, sizzling erotic joy and intimacy.
Zille and I took great delight in massaging lotion into each other’s bruises, admiring them like trophies. And Tom, every time I hugged him, squeezed them with a wicked grin.