32. Evolution

     Things that change: Everything. Things that don’t: Everything.
     And at the same time, neither of those statements is exactly true. Things are fluxy. This is me writing my way through it, from the inside. If you’ve been around for awhile, you might have noticed a few things. You might have noticed that the posts come more infrequently. (Yes, I see it. Once again, the English teachers present can, with all my love, fuck off.) There are reasons for my hesitation. Make no mistake, the biggest reason is that I’m lazy as fuck, but there are others. The easiest one is that originally this was all written out ahead of time (well, through the first eight or ten posts, anyway), and posted weekly while I was trying to keep ahead of it. On the other hand, I’ve been back to being ahead of it for the last couple of months, there are two or three more installments on the page after this one even, but I’m still slow to post. So I have to ask myself why. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, and I think it’s time to face the ugly truth of the situation. It’s another thing you might have noticed, if you’ve been around for awhile: It’s not as good as it used to be. It used to be about reflection and sexuality and sorting through my evolution from someone with a respectable career I was really pretty good at, to someone who is (instead) paying attention to all the other things I am. It has always been about sex, yes. But it used to be introspective and funny and maybe even a little philosophical, albeit inappropriately (which is the best way to be a little philosophical, if you ask me). Somewhere though, it has mutated. Mutated might be a little harsh. Let’s say it has metamorphosed into individual episodes of graphic pornography. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge fan of graphic pornography, but what used to be an exploration, an investigation of my life and the sexuality inherent to it, has become more like a biweekly (if that) report. A play-by-play of my Saturday nights (and Wednesday nights, and Thursday nights, and the occasional Tuesday…), and while I sense that there’s a place for that, I think I’m better at something else. I think I need to shoot for something in between.
     I tried really hard not to become beholden to You, but the thing is, that was easier when there were four of You, than it is now that there have been fifty-five thousand. I think the motivation behind writing shifted from me sorting through my shit, to providing You with something to read, and much of the insight has been sucked out of it, in the process. One of the first four of You told me in the very beginning that she wished it was more narrative, sex stories if you will, and I think that’s sort of the same way I justified the diminishing art of the thing. It’s very possible that she’s in the majority, by the way, given the fifty-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-six page view difference between then and now, but remember way back in Fruit, Wine and Tantalization, when I said “I’m trying not to worry about you”? Right. So maybe this is me sort of returning to the inception of it all, by writing my way out of the flux. I’m trying not to worry about You.
     It’s no coincidence that the blog is fluxy right now. It’s the literary incarnation of my sex life, after all, and that’s fluxy right now, too. I’m doing things I never used to do. I’m capable of things I never was before. As much as I’ve always loved the riding crop, a few scant years ago I would have called you crazy if you’d told me my husband was going to take it to my clit and that it wouldn’t make me safeword. Or you may recall occasions on which my husband has charged me with bringing myself to a g-spot orgasm, and then sat and watched me fail until I came to tears of frustration and abject begging instead, before he’d take pity on me and get me off himself (which he can usually do in five seconds or less – I remember he made me count it out loud one time; I almost made it to three). I always blamed it on a near-impossible angle and the fact that my fingers are shorter than his, but I recently discovered that I was full of shit. It happened while I was backed up against the cushion at the foot of the bed, spread eagled and masturbating under his supervision and scrutiny. What I was doing wasn’t anything new or revolutionary. You know that thing you see from solo-performance porn stars, where they basically just finger fuck themselves super fast, with the palms of their hands slapping against their pussies? It’s just straight, self-penetration, with little to no finesse or any of the subtlety of slow manipulation that I love so dearly. It’s not like I’d never done it before, the point is that I’d never liked it before. Evolution, see? I got myself so close like that that it only took two quick little tries off the end of it, and I was spilling girl-cum into the palm of my own hand. I can do that now.
     At the other end of the spectrum is the slow-fuck that he loves so well. It used to be a delicious tease to me, an anticipatory stasis he’d hold me in until I could stand it no longer, at which point he’d let me off the chain and we’d burst into the hard-fast-and-out-of-control that launched me into wild, flailing orgasm. These days, that long, intense slow-fuck reduces me to a puddle of quivering, girl-shaped goo. Sometimes he does one, sometimes the other, sometimes both. The other night he flipped me face down, ass-up (still one of his favorites), and pinned my knees together under me. He slow-fucked me from behind like that until I was incapable of human speech, and then slammed me hard and fast until I was incapable of human thought. Then he backed off and started over again … and again. By the time he was finished with that game, I was a thing of pleasure only, aware of nothing beyond the sensation of fucking, from the tender skin over the arches of my feet, to the goose bumps raised on my scalp under my hair. Fully on another level of consciousness. It was a lasting condition, too; I went on a blow job run after that like I’d sacrificed my first born child to the goddess of cock sucking. There have been more than a few nights like that.
     And then, and then, and then… there is the element of submission. As always, there is that. I was hashing this out with Harpo, the other day, and I think I’ve got the metaphors right, now. She is my sounding board, and knows (like a good therapist) how to respond just enough to let me figure out on my own, what the fuck I’m babbling on about or obsessing over. She gives me someone else to write even the craziest of my shit to, and it lets me see the forest, even from among the trees. There is no beginning to the submissive aspect of my nature. Even more than a decade ago (dare I say decades?), every new element of domination to which I yielded only served to shine a light on something that was already there. It has never been about discovering something new, it has always been about recognizing something old. Reflections or sensory memories sometimes even from my childhood that were always just there without seeming like they needed explanation, that suddenly fit into place and make sense in a way that leaves me wondering why I’ve never questioned them. So I think of my sexuality as a big, old house that I’ve been living in for my entire life. After I came of age, I became engaged in lifting the sheets off of lavish furniture, reclining on the upholstery I’d never actually looked at before, instead of perching on top of the dust covers. In recent years, I’ve been wandering around opening the doors of whole rooms I’ve been walking right past, for years. Only now, very, very lately, I’m beginning to realize that some of that upholstery is actually just more sheets, that some of those rooms turn out to have walk-in closets in them. Should I stop playing around in the figurative and get to a practical example? You probably already caught the one I’m going to give you, if this isn’t the first post you’re reading; it’s just taken me a couple of weeks to come to grips with it. (Another reason behind being slow to post.) It was the thing with the floggers that really made me have to face it – remember? They didn’t hurt. And there you have it. Maybe it was obvious all along. It’s not just about submission with me, it’s also more about masochism than I’ve admitted to myself, before.
     So if you were one of the people who called bullshit on my whole It’s not about the pain spiel, here you go: You were right and I was wrong. It’s kind of a little bit about the pain. I can’t describe to you the internal turmoil I went through, trying to say that out loud to my husband. If you think it took me a long time to get to the fucking point here, you should have heard that. It was a monologue that was more pregnant silence than actual words, because I couldn’t get them to come out of my mouth. But I did it. I said it. Okay, okay, he had to fill in some of the words for me, but however it happened, it got said. And then (predictably) he Han Solo’d the shit out of me and said “I know.” Fucker. I love him so much it’s sometimes hard to breathe.
     So everything changes, and everything stays the same. He sent me online, tasked me with researching and finding a flogger that feels good because it hurts, and as a kind of symbolic acknowledgement of this next epoch in our long and storied relationship, I have changed my safeword for the first time, ever. I have a feeling I might need it.
     As for the writing, I have no idea where the fuck this thing is going. I’m trying to sit back and watch it happen, instead of pushing it toward somewhere I might assume – likely wrongly – that it will end up. I will put the words on the page, and then read them to find out what the hell they say. And on the side, I’ve started writing down the bag of tricks and blow job savvy compiled in my brain and referenced here. I’m thinking a little bit about an e-book. I don’t know if I’ll go through with it or not – I have a suspicion that anybody who might pay to read it probably already has a bag of tricks all their own. Still, I’ll write it and decide the rest later. Like with everything else, I’m curious to see how it evolves.

(It occurs to me that if you're a huge fan of something like dubstep, you should probably never, ever click on any of the songs I post...)

31. A Day in the Flesh

     It was the comfortable, lazy morning of a day on which nothing in particular had to get done. You have to remember to appreciate those, when they happen. Groping is a pretty good way to do that. He had his hands all over me, and there really aren’t a lot of things on this earth that I like better than that. Unless I’ve had dirty dreams and stayed in bed far longer than is reasonable, I am not generally good for morning sex. I have trouble reaching orgasm at that hour. But he was touching me, and his body was pressed against mine, and there was a slow, deliberate mobility to all things tactile, and he brought me to an impressively explosive clitoral orgasm before we’d said five words to each other. Points to the husband; that’s hard to do to me. As I started to reach for him, he offered me a proposition. How about I start making the preparations for major event-sex now, from tip to toes and all points in between, and then maintain the state of readiness and anticipation all day long? I could change as often as I liked and play with myself at will, and luxuriate in the slow approach of a sure thing, in whatever way I felt like. I hand my hand on his cock, hard as ever.
     “So I’m just supposed to leave you like this, now?”
     “Yes.” He told me later that he’d wanted to come on my ass so badly that his balls hurt all day. I guess I’m not the only one who plays at deprivation.
     So I put on a negligee at 8:30am, and went to make coffee. Halfway to the kitchen, I noticed the familiar coolness of my bare feet on the floor, and went back for a pair of those slutty, lace, high heeled mules you can get for twelve dollars at Frederick’s. He’d already made a mental note of it as Infraction #1, but I redeemed it quickly enough to please him. So I made him coffee and then went to do hair and eyeliner and some of the more delicate, hygienic preparations for a no-holds-barred kind of encounter. I stopped short of honey dusting, because my next stop was going to be the pool. I haven’t mentioned the pool before, because it’s brand new – finished just in time for the weather to turn cold - but today was bright and sunny, and I had a book to finish. I was all set to go outside, gathering my things, when I discovered that my We-Vibe had died. This put a crimp in my plans, as it’s the only waterproof vibrator I own, but I set it to charge and went ahead anyway; I still had fingers, after all.
     I slid out of the negligee and stretched out on a lounge chair, with my thighs spread enough for easy, casual, self-inflicted teasing, and read for awhile while the sun toasted me. The book had been frustrating me for days. It had been recommended as a good, BDSM fantasy story, but it turned out to be unfortunate that the plot was decent, because by the time I figured out there was no actual porn in it, I’d already become involved. Kushiel’s Dart. It’s full of open reference to full-on kink, but reference is all you get. It walks right up to a scene with a swinging, curvy gait, trailing a whip and beckoning you over one shoulder, and then the chapter ends with only implications of all the action that followed. There’s no sex on the page. And it’s 900 pages long. I was considering throwing it into the pool when I was done. In the meantime though, I read and played with myself until the smell of sun-warmed skin wafted off of me, then I left my shoes on the top step and slipped into the water to watch my nipples tighten just under the surface. What is it about being submerged in water? There’s nothing quite like the sensation of swimming naked. I’m not a huge fan of the ocean (I‘m overcome by a healthy fear of Poseidon when faced with that kind of vastness), but a pond or a lake or a river or a pool will have me shucking clothes right into Autumn. So I floated about with my hands on my body, feeling wet flesh with wet fingers, tightened skin and the lift of breasts magically made lighter. Then I slid up onto a raft and spent the next hour finishing the book, with the sun drying and warming and toasting my ass, to match the work it had already done on my chest and belly.
     Back inside, I did a little primping and fixing, and changed for “lunch” (not sure I actually ate anything). I put on a white bustier and the tiny black hot pants, to match the good, black and white striped shoes. We lounged on the bed, watching porn and talking about sex. I got my We-Vibe off the charger and played with that while we talked, until the partial charge wore off. Kiss a little, play a little, suck a little cock. He held my face in both hands, and then slid them down to my throat, just looking at me without pressing, both of us knowing he might at any moment. I did a little more prep (because while I’m pretty casual about things like ass to mouth, it’s partially because I’m pretty fastidious about ass play in the first place). I returned and sat on my cone next to him while we discussed the potential directions the next several hours might take. He trailed his fingers down my underarm, teased my pussy, groped my ass. He watched me bring myself to orgasm in a conflicted state of desire and jealousy that he has come to enjoy.
     I still had some grooming to do – touch up the trim job and I wanted to wash off the taste of the pool – when he offered up another little proposition. He might just run out to the adult store and pick up a flogger, while I finished getting ready. We’ve never had a flogger. Their effects have always seemed a little frivolous and aesthetically they’re kind of stupid looking. We’ve had a little paddle/slapper thing for ages that we never use, because it’s more about the sound it makes than the impact it has. Pointless. Floggers seemed like the sort of things that would end up similarly collecting dust. Recently though, we’d had a conversation about the fact that we may have been judging them too harshly and based on almost nothing. It seemed a novel idea, so I kissed him and watched him go, and set about the rest of the girly stuff.
     The adult store is only a few minutes away, so I was still filling the tub when he returned. He had two floggers: One narrow one, with red accents on black leather and long, thin tails; the other shorter, fatter and all black, with tails that were thicker, heavier. He told me he’d been leaning toward the long, thin one, but knowing my dislike of the color red, had gone ahead with both. For science, you understand. I turned off the water and stood, and then kneeled and crawled onto the bed while he tested them against my thighs, then my back, then my ass. I liked it immediately. Enough so that I couldn’t tell which was better, the thud and burn of the fat black one, or the whip and sting of the red. They both felt… Good. I went undecided into the bath, with an early glass of wine and some responsibly graphic porn.
     We continued talking about sex and porn while I shaved my legs and my husband perused the movie library. Once out of the tub and mindful of the morning’s directive to keep all things just-so all day, I tweaked the hair and eyeliner until there was no evidence of my bath. Then I got out the good lotion and took up my perch on top of the backrest at the foot of the bed. Naked and still soft and steamy from the hot water, I made sure he had a good view while I overused it, until I smelled of warm cake from neck to boobs to snatch to toes. Someone once told me I had an ass like French vanilla ice cream, and though I suspect he stole that line from a movie, it does good things to my ego while I’m doing something like making a spectacle of rubbing lotion into it. I had a plan for what I wanted to ultimately end up wearing, but I wasn’t sure it was late enough in the day to put it on. My husband confirmed my hesitation with the suggestion that we spend a little time outside, while it was still light. He wanted to do a little mutual look-no-touch, and I quickly thought of a way to put a bit of a twist in that, while injecting a touch of pink into the affair that might just make him want to defile me that much more. I have a pair of panties that look exactly (deceptively) like the stretch lace ones that I have in several different colors. I’d had them for some time, but only worn them once and briefly, and I put my money on the likelihood that he wouldn’t remember them. They are deep pink, with a little purple woven in, and I put them on and got them adjusted to maximum disguise without his noticing anything. I slipped into a tight, nettie little white camisole, and a pair of ankle-strap heels that I never wear (too pink). On our way out, I grabbed a fat, pink make-up stick that triples as blush, eye shadow, and lipstick, and smells like lemonade flavored bubblegum.
     We went out by the pool, and he set himself up on a barstool, looking down on me, while I stretched out on a lounge chair turned to face him. There were people over the wall behind us, and our neighbors in their yard to one side, and we listed to them talking while he stroked himself for my viewing pleasure, and I propped one leg over the arm of my chair and did the same for his. He had cigarettes for me (two! – that must have been what he was up to while I was concealing the nature of my panties), and I smoked one of them while I played with my boobs and my nipples, and traced the fingers of one hand over the fabric at my crotch. Understand that I fully intended to defy the no-touch condition of the exercise, but I knew I had to wind him up a little before he’d let me get away with it. So I waited for his gaze to narrow from a full-body survey and ogle, to a visual devouring between my legs, accompanied by the increase of intensity in the stroking of his cock, and then I carefully revealed the split crotch of the panties. I was rewarded with a low, animal sound from the back of his throat. I teased both of us with a finger to my labia, splitting them like the crotch of the panties, just the tip inside and sliding from the bottom to the top, slow circle around the clit… Then I paused, took my hand away. He looked up at me and I smiled and uncapped the make-up stick. I looked back at him while I applied it first to the lips on my mouth, and then carefully, slowly to the lips of my pussy. I lit the other cigarette and hoped he could still smell the candy scented make-up from where he sat. I don’t know if that’s what did it, but that’s when he stood and offered me his cock. I abandoned the smoke and crawled forward, squatted in my high heels, at his feet. I tried briefly to maintain the integrity of my lipstick for the slutty Barbie effect of it, but before long I was on my knees on the deck, and his cock matched the color of my shoes and my panties and my pussy, and smelled like lemonade flavored bubblegum. He put his hand at the back of my neck and pushed his cock into my throat, just once, then he held me off of him and met my eyes when I looked up from the ground.
     “Go get dressed.”
     Now I could put on what I’d been waiting to wear. It’s an underbust corset I’d bought, after the night of Conflicts and Contradictions, when my good, black corset had proven to be in the way of the nefarious plans he’d had for my breasts. This one is of even better quality – it might, in fact, be the nicest thing I now own. You can feel how good it is just in the heavy quality of the fabric. It has vertical, black-on-black stripes (to go with the awesome shoes), and steel boning with visible steel closures down the front. It’s fucking beautiful. I put on the stripey shoes with appropriate ceremony, and they looked as perfect with it as I’d hoped they would. I went stockingless, so that my flesh was available for the floggers from my ankles to my hips and ass, and then above the corset from the underside my breasts, upward. The last piece was a little embellishment that I used to sport often, but hadn’t worn for probably years. Have you ever tried nipple bands? I highly recommend. Visually, it’s like dressing up your boobs, but without covering any part of them. Are you familiar with those thin, round, black rubber bracelets that Madonna had everybody wearing by the dozen, in the 80s? (I think they were really just vacuum seals, before they got popular enough to be mass produced.) These are the same thing, only nipple sized. They come with a rubber bulb, attached to a little glass nozzle that you slip over a nipple while you hold the bulb compressed. Let go of the bulb, and the suction pulls your nipple into the glass. Then you roll the nipple band off the outside of the glass tube, onto your areola, and remove the bulb and nozzle. Now your nipple is bound tight, erect and engorged and encircled, so the visual effect is topped only by the sensory one. Standing there admiring my breasts in the mirror and feeling the grip of those little rubber circles, I couldn’t fathom why I’d possibly abstained from wearing them for so long. Just the shoes, the corset, and the nipple bands, that (besides the not quite invisible personal climate of a full day of sexual tension), was all I wore, and the impression was killer, and I felt absolutely marvelous.
     Time for the true testing of the floggers.
     Standing, he took them by turns against the backs of my thighs and my calves, my shoulders and shoulder blades, my arms and my underarms. The differences between them were predictable: The long thin one has more sting to it, the kind that makes you suck in your breath through your teeth in a hiss, the shorter wider one has more weight, more blow to the blow, the kind that makes you lend voice to an involuntary exhale. The difference between both of them and the flogger or the switch was noticeable: Instead of a swat that cracks hard enough to make you gasp and cry out, and then deepens into a whole new type of pain that makes it hard to breathe at all, the floggers light a dozen little fires in your skin all at once, and then instead of fading or increasing, they simply stay lit. You can feel them for full minutes afterward, as though the tails are still coming down on your skin. As before, the way it presented itself to my mind was just that it felt good… Only there was a shadow of a but in the back of my head that was trying to get my attention. I knew what it was and tried to ignore it, because I really was having a lovely time of it. There were bright spots lingering, residing in my flesh as he summoned me onto the bed and cross-examined me on the merits of the thin one versus the fat. I sat on my feet, on my shoes, before him while he took them one at a time to my inner thighs, my outer thighs, my breasts, the undersides of my raised arms, my pussy. And here’s where the point came home. I like thud more than sting. That was clear by now, and (as everything has, for the last few years of sex becoming more and more based around dominance and submission), fell neatly into place with every erotic sensation and emotion I’d ever failed to pay proper attention to. So, when he told me to choose, when he made me voice a preference, select the flogger with which he would continue from under the blows that didn’t stop falling, why, why, why did I choose the evil, pointy slice of the long thin tails? I tried for a moment to suggest that it had something to do with the fact that it was the red one. I don’t like red, so I chose the red one. But that only made the point more obvious; I’d chosen the one I didn’t like. The whisper at the back of my head shifted quietly to the front: The floggers felt good… but they didn’t hurt. The lack of real pain in the sparks of leather raining on my flesh is fun at first, but then I miss it, and I can’t pretend I don’t. I did not voice this thought. I didn’t need to. I needed to know it and sit with it, and in the mean time give myself over to my husband, who had dropped one hand to the bed, palm up – a signal that I was to put my pussy in his hand, which I did, and let myself be carried away from introspection and analysis by the heady rush of g-spot orgasm.
     He made me sit immobile, arms clasped over my head, hands to elbows, while he let me try to recover and brought me off again before I’d succeeded. I was sitting in a puddle of my own come at this point, a pool of it in his palm, and his fingers at work and then at rest and then at work inside me. I was too caught up in the whirl my head becomes during recurring orgasms, to recognize that he was working left handed, and then the red flogger came down on me from his right. He flogged my breasts with their tight banded nipples, my thighs from the outside, sufficiently hard that I could lose myself in the loathsome sting. Then he pulled his hand out from under me, motioned me to lean back, and went to work on my inner thighs and my pussy. He flogged them pink and hot and then reached in and made me come again, and before I could recover the long thin lashes were back in play. He brought my nipples into it then, developing his skill at aiming with the new toy, to ensure that several of the very tips of the leather tails connected with the swollen raspberries they had become. He traded the flogger for squeezing my whole breasts, did their current state of constriction impede their ability to give milk? No, no it did not. Now my breasts were wet, and flogged again, splashing. He reached under me again, and watched my face while he slipped one finger into my ass and made me come.
     Finally, I was allowed to move, and of course I went straight to the cock sucking. I didn’t stay there as long as I usually do. I went slow and deep and decadent, and the overly wet state I left him in made me unable to resist rubbing his cock against my clit, my clit against his cock. He lay back and let me climb up to ride him, flogging me at irregular intervals so that I rose to the lip of a vaginal orgasm, and then just stayed there, not tipping over or falling back from it, as he curled the lashes around my sides and shoulders to whip against my back and my ass. I rode him hard and felt that cervix bashing like a wicked/wonderful deepening bruise. It was so good that it wasn’t even frustrating when the crest of the orgasm never spilled over. I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to stay in that brink-of-climax state as long as he’d let me. And he let me go so long that the bruised cervix sensation stayed with me for the rest of the night.
     He told me to lick my pussy off his cock, and while I did it, he put his fingers in my snatch, and in my ass at the same time. He fucked me like that while I sucked him, and then he produced my pink glass toy and turned me to face away from him. He flogged me while he worked it into my ass, alternating lashes against my ass and my hips with the motion of the slippery, smooth head pushing into me, pulling out. Again the stinging tails were only sting, but still they stayed alight in my skin and the sting was enough. He pulled me back up onto him and flogged me while I rode him again, but this time working the toy in my ass while he did it. Back and forth, riding, flogging, ass fucking, and then sucking his cock again and him flogging me more, breasts, thighs, abdomen below the corset. Finally he was close enough to orgasm that I could have brought him off in my mouth, but I didn’t want to. I slipped the toy out of my ass and replaced it with his cock, sinking back onto the full length of him. Three times I came with his cock buried in me, slowing down between each and leaning back, rising up onto my feet so that he could watch the ass fucking. We looked at each other and slow-fucked, while he talked dirty to me, describing it in all the graphic detail my book had been lacking, wondering aloud if he would choose to come in my ass or in my mouth. The talking, talking, talking pours like hot molasses into my ears, down through my insides, to my pussy, and back up into my brain. It always does. There is nothing I would not do for him, then. He called for ass to mouth, probably just for the pleasure of watching me do as I was told. I did, all too eagerly, and he came against the roof of my mouth and down my throat.
     And so the day ended, morning light to dark of night, and all that. It’s possible I kept his cock in my mouth longer than was necessary, I was so sorry to see it go.

(I have no idea who this chick is, but she’s got a new twist on The Kinks, and I love a remake that departs from the original.)

30. Spit, flip, thwack.

     I may have been touching myself a little, just lying there next to him, but I can’t blame myself; I hadn’t stopped thinking about Friday. Whatever other sexual escapades had transpired over the last four days, I hadn’t stopped reliving that riding crop trailing over my chest and my inner thighs, and the sensation of getting off while getting hit. He reached over and casually groped my pussy two or three times, before he committed. Once he did though, it was a slow, calculated (wet) assault.
     Here’s the thing about spit: Spit on the ground, in the street, into a cup, even on the baseball field, and I am disgusted. Spit on my pussy and I will shudder and melt. He knows this.
     I still had panties on. A soft little black dress, a bra, and panties. (Funny that I use that word all the time now. I used to object to it unconditionally. I think writing this has desensitized me.) They were wine colored stretch-lace – you know that lace that’s not actually lacey? Tight without elastic that will leave a line on your skin? He groped me through them, cupping my snatch and squeezing, fingers pressing into and against me, and then he pulled them back, peered inside, and languidly spit onto my clit. He watched it slip slowly over my labia and down toward my ass, and then he put the panties back and groped me through them again. The spit was hotter than my pussy, and while I was already wet internally, it soaked into the crotch of my panties like I’d been fucking myself all afternoon. He was apparently unmoved by my intake of breath and involuntary physical response – my back arched, my arms went over my head, and I slid down the bed toward him. He just kept groping me until the slow writhe against his hand began. He let me move on him like that, encouraging me with his fingers and his palm, until I was almost caught up in it, eyes closed and forgetful of every single other thing, and then I felt him pull the panties back again, and there was the hot dollop landing with the same clinical accuracy, and the wet slide down the length of my pussy repeated. He varied his method of assault again and again, slow and deep, light and fast, slow and light, fast and deep, but in between each there came the hot, wet introduction of spit. Gripping and pulling, stroking and circling, pinching and probing, and always there was that slippery, dripping drop rolling onto me, until I couldn’t tell the wetness from without from the wetness from within.
     He flipped me over and rolled my panties down just halfway over my ass, then he proceeded to repeat his procedure from that side, thumb to my ass, fingers between my lips, and the inevitable spit slipping from back to front now. It was a longer drip with my clit on the underside, the new ultimate destination, because I had to wait for the warm pool in my ass to spill over onto my perineum and across. Again though, once the journey was made, he’d readjust those wet, wet panties and mash them into me with his hand. I was debating the question of whether to continue letting him do to me as he would until I came, or getting his cock in my mouth (which I could do from the position he already had me in, if I could just turn without repercussion), when he threw me out. He slapped my ass, tossed me a cigarette, and told me he wanted two fingers in my ass and my other hand on my clit, while I smoked it. I tried to get to his cock, if only briefly, before I left, but only succeeded in breaking the cigarette at the filter. He pretended not to notice or to be tempted by my attempt, and I had a moment of panic over being stuck with no options and a broken cigarette. There was no way I would dare to ask for another, tonight. His dismissive manner and the tone of his voice had told me everything I needed to know. It’s funny how my head can do that – get so caught up in the sex world that it can forget something as basic as the fact that despite hardly smoking in the last two years (you’ve read about most of it here), I started when I was fourteen years old and could repair a busted Camel in four seconds with my eyes closed in the back of a speeding car, without the slightest issue. I had to laugh at myself as I retreated, chagrined, out the back door. It really can take over everything.
     There’s an element of submission (even as mild as mine) – whether you’re talking about taking a beating or simply doing as you are told – that overlaps with a sense of extreme competence. When you’re in that space, you can do anything that’s expected of you. Or I feel like I can, anyway. Like I could take anything he could throw at me, and wait patiently for more. (Maybe it’s why he sometimes sets me up to fail – an impossible task or a game I cannot win.) A hint of that came back to me, as I went outside. And I even have a chair now, so once I remembered that I knew what I was doing (compared to something like a caning with the shaft of the switch), two fingers in my ass and the other hand at my clit with or without a broken cigarette, was so easy it felt like cheating. I put my feet up, tipped my chair backward, and tried to imagine he was watching me for mistakes or half-assing, through the window. I wished for strangers in the alley or neighbors over the wall. I put on a lascivious show for no one, debauchery personified, with my wet panties stretched tight above my spread knees, and my ass displayed in self-violation, pinching my slippery clit. If I could have blown a smoke ring at the same time, I would have. Maybe he saw it on my face when I came back in, because he motioned me back into the position I’d been in last – face down, ass up – and barehanded spanked me until my ass throbbed and radiated heat. (That must have been when he got rid of the panties – afterward I couldn’t remember when they had disappeared.) Reversing the move he’d made earlier, he flipped me over to the other side then, knees up, and did it again, slapping my ass from the opposite angle and my wet pussy besides. Then he turned me back. I could get dizzy on a night like this. This time, between flipping me over and back, he took my throat in one large hand every time he brought me back to face him, cut off my breath and looked me in the eyes. He gave nothing away in his own expression but need. He may have been looking for my limits in my face, checking on where I was and how far he could push me tonight, but from the outside it read of love. Love and desire and no false bullshit piled on top or getting in its way.
     “Take off your bra.” He’d had me on my back, slapping my pussy until it jumped and glowed. I hurried to comply, and any delusion of that sense of competence I’d still been harboring evaporated, as I got myself completely stuck. The bra was a cross-back, so even after the hooks are released, you still have to take it off over your head. I’d tried to get the little dress off in the same motion, and managed to get hung up with it tangled in the bra and wrapped around my upper arms and head. Ridiculous. Instead of laughing, my husband was quick to press the advantage, and descended on my exposed breasts with practiced cruelty. By the time I’d freed myself, they’d been slapped and pinched to pink, and squeezed until milk rolled down my sides and soaked into the bedspread like spit into a pair of cotton, stretch-lace panties.
     “You have five minutes to drink your wine.” I didn’t try to guess why he’d said it or what he was planning. His ambush of my breasts had reminded me that I’d lately fallen in love (again), with their ability to lactate. Yes, I had some wine as the minutes ticked away, but mostly I played with my boobs. I’d been thinking about this almost as much as I’d been thinking about Friday (no, pretty sure that’s a lie), and I just let go all restraint and decorum (that’s not). I squeezed them until milk rolled over my fingers. I drew milk from my wet nipples with fingers that were already wet with milk. I covered my whole breasts until they were so slippery it was hard to do, and then the sweetness of it left them sticky, and I was able to start all over again. I was about to start a third round of this, when he got up and walked away. What was he doing? Where was he going? Was he just getting his own drink? Why would he do that on a night of this flavor? I tried not to get insecure about it and lay back admiring the shine on my breasts, droplets sitting at the tips of my nipples. Then he came back not just with a fresh drink, but also with the riding crop and a set of restraints. You have five minutes to drink your wine. Ah. Because after that I wouldn’t be able to.
     It was the same crop he’d used on Friday. We have another one that we refer to as the switch, even though it isn’t a true switch (it’s not a true riding crop either though, as the leather tip is a double flap instead of a loop). I prefer the true crop, because it’s more bruisey where the “switch” is more stingy, so it wasn’t just the memory of Friday night that made me glad to see it. He lay stripes down on my inner thighs, before he took it to my pussy. There, he started with sort of a general punishing before narrowing his focus to the thwack of my clit. It was almost parallel to the way he slow plays me when he goes down, bringing me along incrementally until I’m about to come anyway, and then hiking me up to a whole new level when he shifts into the next stage of intensity and slingshots me into orgasm. By the time he was done with my clit, my legs were jumping and shuddering and I was squirming disgracefully. The dripping wet that had been spit first and then breast milk, was girl-cum in this incarnation of the game. He’d strike me to a point where I could no longer hold still for it, then he’d jerk me off, slip his fingers in to my g-spot, and drench me with orgasm #3. Then he’d flip me over and start again.
     I was face down when the demand came for my ass in the air. I had to have already been worn to slacking by that point, because I know how high it’s supposed to be raised. I adjusted promptly, and felt his cock at my snatch instead of the crop. There was no slow play now, this was a shock-and-awe pummeling. He crushed me into the mattress and fucked me hard, pinned me down with one hand to the back of my neck and the other at my lower spine, preventing me from fucking him back. So often he’s got his hand at my throat, looking in my eyes while he fucks me and watches me not breathe. This was literally the other side of that. His hand at the back of my neck forced my throat into the mattress and cut off the air just as effectively, while he slammed into me from behind. There was fear in it, because I always have the utmost confidence in his ability to recognize in my face the moment when he’s held it as long as I can stand (or just slightly longer), but now he couldn’t see my face. In reality I guess he could, as my head was turned to the side, but I couldn’t see him, so it felt very disconnected – isolating. The feeling was reinforced by the brutality with which he was railing me. There was no slow-fucking until I was beside myself, squirming and babbling lustful profanity; he was driving into me with force and at speed, and against all the stinging marks he’d laid across my flesh. Ultimately there is never any question of my safety with him, so I was free to feel the fear without actual panic, and free-fall into the sensations of his holding me down and using me.
     He stopped before he came, and pulled out of me. In a daze, I watched him produce the restraints he’d gotten out earlier. It was a hog-tie, so while I may have slumped in the aftermath of being fucked, I was hesitant to move from my position. He turned me back over himself then, and I saw that he had taken it apart. Now he had two wrist to ankle restraints, and he spread my knees and positioned my arms in front of them as he cuffed me, so that I could not close them. He knelt in front of me with his cock still hard and wet and took up the riding crop again. He started with my inner thighs and then my outer labia, and then he moved to the available underside of my ass that was still hot, sore and tenderized. Welts across fresh welts. It’s one of the things that most quickly tests my limits. Most other things walk me up to the line step by step, like a game of Mother May I?, but stripe-on-stripe runs me right up to the edge. (At least I think it’s the edge at the time – usually it’s really a different edge that will drop me into solace if I can just throw myself off of it.) His cock should have been cool against my crotch. It had been wet with my pussy and my pussy had been thwacked to bright pink. It should have been cool. It was hot. He didn’t fuck me right away though, he let his cock rest against me like that, barely inside the lower folds, then he gave me that look that makes all my bones dissolve and spit onto my clit. I closed my eyes and tested the cuffs holding my wrists to my ankles, feeling the restraint of it at the same time as the sensation of hot spit slipping down over my quim, while he watched. When it met the head of his cock, he pushed the tip into me just a little, slid out and over and around, spreading wetness. Now he slow-fucked me, holding my knees as far as they spread and my arms with them, for the restraints. With one hand he reached back for the crop and as slowly as he was fucking me, he put new marks down my sides and my hips and my belly. He flipped me again – manually lifted and flipped me, because I was still restrained, and this time the spit hit me in the ass, the splat echoed by the thwack of the crop against my outer thigh. Again, he met the spit with his cock and both of them disappeared inside me. He continued fucking and beating me, never quite losing control or getting carried away, and then he simply reached down and unlocked my cuffs from each other.
     “You’ll have to keep those on, in case I need them again.” He said it while he hauled me up by the shoulders, and then he pushed me over backward against the cushion at the foot of the bed. My ears were ringing, blood draining out of my head from being flung so quickly up and away, made me dizzy. There was a pulse in my temples that mimicked the smack of the crop as he used it to spread my thighs at the inside of my knees.
     “Touch your clit.” It was a whisper and I shouldn’t have been able to hear it over the music and the wooshing in my head. I remember having the strange thought that this was a space in which only his voice would carry. I played with my clit, pulling the way he does, squeeze and pinch like Nina Hartley, and then the simple two-finger-swirl of the prepubescent girl who’s just discovered what it’s for. Side to side, back and forth he smacked one inner thigh and then the other, working his way right up to the divot at the very meeting place of thigh and pussy, pushing me closer and closer to orgasm while simultaneously preventing it. Finally his objective climbed to my pussy itself, just under my slippery fingers, and his rhythm sped up until it was a constant patter of wet strikes against me and finally, finally, finally I came. Then came the tears. There’s a difference between tears and crying. I was not actively crying, but the tears fell out of my control while he pulled me to him, leaned back and sat me on his cock. It was clearly a reward, and he let me ride him as I pleased, arms draped over my own head with the D-rings of the unlocked cuffs dangling against the back of my neck. Twice I got off with his cock triggering my g-spot, full eye contact enhanced by the wet tear lines on my cheeks and the warm gush of my orgasms pooling between us.
     “Do you want to suck your come off my cock?” A simple “Yes” will not suffice at a point like this; I have to say the words. Before he let me off him though, he locked the wrist restraints to each other. I mistook this move for an invitation to a two-handed blow job, and was corrected with a hard slap to the face the minute my fingers closed around him.
     “Don’t you dare touch me with your hands.” The slap scrambled the shit out of me. It’s not even so much the shock of being hit, in those instances, it’s mostly the figurative slap of the correction itself. I’d misread him. Fucked up. The brain scrambling is a state I think of as ‘sub-head’; it’s a condition of being so desperate to please him, to redeem myself, that I forget I know how to do so. It’s the same thing that happened with the broken cigarette. In regular life it would be like panicking so much over the fact that your blow-up raft has popped that you forget you know how to swim. I do not need the use of my hands, to suck my husband’s cock. It took me a moment of frantic, undisciplined mouthing to remember, but when I did, I was praised … Praised and then Thwacked as the crop connected with my ass again. That’s how it went, praise and then thwack, praise and then thwack, as I sucked him off, the taste of my own come on his cock, on my tongue, pushed back into my throat as I took him deep. And now the spit was mine. I let it fall onto him from a wide-out – withdrawing from the deep throat with my mouth as open as I could make it. I spread it over him from root to tip, painting him sideways with my tongue. I spit down onto the head of his cock from above, and then smeared it down the length of him with my lips. I drowned myself on him, abandoned control and slid my whole face over his wet cock, like a cat rubbing her whiskers against your leg. I made a mess, while the crop relit the little, dying fires in my skin.
     Once I get on a roll like that, there’s not a lot I won’t try with a cock, whether or not I have the use of my hands. This is where I start inventing new tricks, making up new sequences and maneuvers. If I get too caught up I can get reckless with the approach of his climax. If he wants to fuck me again, he’ll often have to stop me physically, pull me up onto him... He wanted to fuck me again. He unlocked my cuffs and let me ride him as he had before. I was in such a state of arousal already, that I started having g-spot orgasms almost immediately, and the drench of spit became the drench of come again. At that point he grabbed me hard by the hips and held me still, with his cock buried in my pussy. I tried to stay just as he had sat me, but when he reemployed the riding crop to my thighs and even my clit, while his cock was still inside me (who’s reckless now?!), I couldn’t keep from squeezing. I did kegels on his cock while he smacked me, felt the wet splash of my come on his belly, and that over-emotional cris-crossing of pleasure and pain that I’d been obsessing about since Friday engulfed me. I let it. My husband trailed the wet leather loop up my body to my mouth, where I licked it, trading come back for spit, then he’d bring it down on me again and trade it back.
     Eventually we made that trade on his cock again, as well. I had my hands at my disposal now, and I was working some crazy embellishment of a cheek punch, with a tight grip and tongue across the frenulum (that remains undefined and nameless, as of yet), when he took one of my fingers, and held it up.
     “Put this finger in your ass.” I circled my ass with it for a moment, and then sank it in at the same moment as I pushed his cock into my throat until my lips were at his pelvic bone. He praised me for that, but again the praises came with punishment. I pulled up off his cock and met his eyes, then I withdrew my finger. I brought it to my mouth while he watched, exposing as I did so the side of my breast and my rib cage, on which he lay the crop (though not unkindly), while I coated my finger in spit. Holding his cock up tight in my other hand, I transferred my dripping finger to the tip, curled it around the head while he whispered loving profanity. Then I put him back into my throat.
     “Fuck your ass again.” I obliged, and repeated the sequence as before, while he verbally defiled me. I set caution aside at that point, and set to his cock in earnest. There was going to be no backing off before the end came now, and between tongue, hand, lips and throat, I employed as much spit as there had been girl-cum. When he went over the edge I sucked the come out of him like I was actually sucking the come out of him.

     Afterward, I lay along the length of him, wrapped in his arms, while he lightly caressed the stingy places on me. Some would be gone by morning, some were already purple and lasting.
     “Not bad for a Thursday,” he said.
     “Or a Wednesday.”
     “It’s only Wednesday?!”
     “Yes … Sorry.”
     *Thwack*

(Yep.)