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.)
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