Well, two, anyway.
A few nights ago D. and I were in bed, settling down to sleep. The lights were off, the windows open to try and get some through breeze; it's been baking in London since I got back. Once side effect of this is insects.
The first thing I know about the fly is D. jumping up and swatting irritably around his head, but by then it's flown off. He settles back down, grumbling about the uselessness of my cat, who is curled up on my feet and totally uninterested in hunting flies. After a few more minutes of buzzing and taunting on the part of the fly, D. loses patience. He turns the light on and looks around for it. It's up near the ceiling, too far to reach with a book, and I don't have a fly swat.
Naturally, D. grabs the nearest likely object to hand: Tom's brown leather martinet, left crumpled on the floor at the bottom of my bed after our scene with Caroline. (Yes, I need to tidy my room.) He starts lashing the flogger at the fly with a practised right arm, while I wake up enough to collapse in giggles. After a couple of strokes he hits his mark, and the fly plummets lifeless onto his pillow. The hapless creature is deposited outside, while I crack jokes about his irrepressible domliness. Secretly, I can't help feeling slightly jealous of the fly.
D. and I again, a couple of nights later. We're at his place this time, nearing the end of a long weekend of sun, friends, and re-acquainting ourselves with each other's bodies. I'm feeling recharged and horny after my week in the sun, and can't seem to get enough of him.
We've been up all night partying, and are both tired, but for me the tiredness is overwhelmed by sexual hunger. He's still feeling worn out, but I tell him he doesn't need to move much. He lies facedown on the bed while I lick him all over, and then lick him in some very specific places which swiftly wake him up. Before I know it I'm on my back, clutching the head bars of his bed with both hands, and he's kneeling over me with his 'horsehair' rubber flogger, grinning. This is a sensation-play toy rather than a particularly hard one, and I can't take my eyes off him as he takes his time shaking it out, teasing out the tangles with his fingers.
He whips my breasts with it, alternating each stroke with caresses that sensitise my nipples, and make the next hurt more than I expect. It hurts just enough to make me desperate for more, but not enough to make me afraid.
Later I'm kneeling up on the bed, legs spread wide and my hands clasped behind my back. He looks me in the eyes as he lifts my chin with one hand and slaps my breasts with the other. The slaps are hard, hard enough to shock me. I can feel the weight of my breasts, despite their smallness, as they bounce under the smacks. Between slaps he leans forward to kiss me; hot, teasing, melt-in-the-mouth kisses. Neither of us is particularly patient, and before much longer we're fucking as hard as we can, flushed and panting and me screaming loud enough to seriously annoy his neighbours. This is why I never believe him when he tells me he's too tired.
Last night, I found myself replaying the scene as I pleasured myself. I don't regret the passion that led us onto other things so fast, but pure sex is never enough to stimulate my imagination when I'm on my own: my masturbatory fantasies are far rougher and nastier than the things I usually get up to. I pictured myself tied down on my back, hands together and feet forced apart. A blindfold tied tightly over my eyes, heightening my sense of touch and making me more aware of my vulnerably open mouth. He's playing that stinging rubber flogger up and down my body, not discriminating as to where: the stinging lashes falling on breasts, nipples, tummy, ribs, hipbones, thighs. I'm twisting under the strokes, the tender flesh of my belly and sides unused to the impact, trying in vain to escape the stinging whip, but my moans belie my movements and every stroke just makes me wetter...
That's as far as the fantasy got, I'm afraid. Curse my short attention span.
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