Posted at 23:22 on 1 Feb 2012 by Pandora / Blake
The first scene we played, we were making up for lost time. I hadn't seen Tom for three weeks, and we'd missed each other. As soon as I'd taken my coat off and had a cup of tea, by mutual consent I fell over his knee. Knee, singular. He sat on the corner of the bed and offered one of his sturdy thighs for support. The other remained crooked, at an angle, ready to move in and trap my legs between his.
It didn't need to. Throughout the considerate warmup, the gaining intensity, the testing smacks to my crease and thighs, I held still. Elbows splayed on the bed, I rested my cheek on the duvet, closed my eyes and surrendered. When the pain became too much my mouth might open, a yelp might escape it, but I did not kick.
Still, as his fingers began to tap and slap more sharply at my upper thighs, his other leg nestled closer, intimately. Not pinning me down: only whispering the threat of it.
By nature I am a wriggler. I clench my toes, flex my feet, twist my hips. Hands grasp at duvet; fingers grip. My head turns and my lips move. But I'm also stubborn. That whispered threat was enough to make me hold perfectly still. Especially when he challenged my obedience with those excruciating spanks on my thighs. He reminded me of the promise he made last time - that he would train me in this until I was able to take it - but he didn't need to. I remembered him telling me that when he fantasises about whipping a girl with a riding crop, in the fantasy the welts don't just pattern her upturned arse, but criss cross halfway down her thighs as well.
In fact, it quickly became apparent that if he wanted me to hold absolutely still, hold my breath, make no sound at all, all he needed to do was smack my thighs. Attempting to process the pain obediently, I would without meaning to stop moving entirely, as if I had a pause button and he held the remote control. It was only semi-voluntary, but his growled "Good girl" when I took those agonising thigh smacks uncomplainingly was reward enough to continue.
The spanking ended all too soon for my taste. Seeing his intentions take an amorous direction, I wondered if I could get away with asking for a little more before we got completely distracted. I begged, as nicely as I could, for a taste of his belt. He didn't need much asking.
The whipping that followed was a celebration of our mutual kink. It was hard, regular, quite fast, building and building in intensity. It was joyful and euphoric. I tossed my head and gripped the pillows and adored every second of it. When my wriggling got too much he pinned me with a knee and whipped me all the harder. I never wanted it to end. When we did, finally, get distracted, I was so wet that there could never be any doubt how much I want and need this.
The second scene we played, we had other making up to do.
We'd been bickering all day, in that way which feels like innocent, healthy debate at the time, but which leaves both of you feeling defensive and aggrieved. After our first scene failed, we spent many hours talking emotionally about dominance and submission and trust and authority. I think the hurt and insecurity was mutual.
I love how easily we can talk through these things when they arise, how freely our conversation flows; but the flipside of that is inadvertently getting stuck in the rut of our conversation. We'd found points of agreement, subsided, and both clearly craved reassurance and reconnection.
One of the themes of that painful discussion was how often I lead our play, for all I'm the sub, and after being challenged on it I was reluctant to do the same thing again. But I knew that it would be hard for him to take charge after such a conversation. I could see a road out of our difficulty, and having obtained his permission I took the liberty of taking it.
I swung myself into his lap and kissed him. Sometimes arguing is necessary, but after saying what we'd needed to I could think of better uses for our mouths. I ran my palms over his shoulders and chest, and he began to respond. When his strong hands found my breasts, rubbed rough circles over my nipples, that was enough. I surrendered control; only retaining as much as I required to serve him more completely.
The following few hours were hot, and intense, and squirmy and humiliating and hot. He rough-handled me, gripped my throat, threw me down. I whispered "Please, no, please no," while the glitter in my eyes told him yes, yes, yes. He thrust his hard cock into my mouth and used it to guide me to the wall, pinning me in place by the throat. He pulled my hair and growled lascivious threats in my ear.
As the violence escalated, at each stage he waited for me to ask, and I was so dazed with lust and humiliated by my own desires I could barely force the words out. But I asked, and I received.
He bent me over and thrashed me with his riding crop until my bottom and thighs were welted; watched as each blazing stroke to my thighs made me go still with fright, obedience and pain. He spanked and fondled my buttocks; pulled them apart with rough hands to inspect what lay between, while I sobbed and whimpered and melted into a tiny embarrassed puddle of lust. He found his smallest cane and, holding my cheeks apart, tapped and lightly whipped my most secret place. I have fantasised about that and never experienced it; I've never felt anything so awful, and so hot. Then he lubed up his vibrator and, slowly, penetrated my arse for the first time in years. His cock followed not long after.
Sometimes I worry that make-up sex is a sign of an unhealthy dynamic; that we're purchasing it with a needless fight. But I don't think either of us wanted that argument: and after it, both of us needed a reconnection that was comparably intense. The pendulum needs to swing back the other way.
Perhaps I had something to prove; perhaps the raw intimacy of a difficult conversation opened the floodgates. In some ways it followed on naturally from the increased trust and violence of the scene we played at the end of my last visit. Everything that took place, we had both wanted for ages, but hadn't felt secure enough to attempt. All I know is that for days afterwards, images of this scene swirled in my mind, dissolving me at a moment's notice, whatever I was doing, and make me wet all over again. And afterwards, neither of us was inclined to doubt the strength of our D/S dynamic.