So I’ve been staring at the next several pages of my journal for days and days. Here I’ve made this proclamation about getting this thing a step or two back toward what it used to be, but the next few entries are written very much in the style of what it has become (cue the funk soundtrack). So what’s a girl to do? I tried reading back over the early posts to confirm that they are more entertaining (they are), but wasn’t able to figure out how to morph the upcoming episodes into the view-from-just-a-little-further-away that I want. I don’t want to just bail on the idea; that would be too similar to the way I make grand statements about writing schedules and then immediately fuck them up. (It’s so consistent that some part of me has to be doing it on purpose. Self-sabotage or belligerence? Hard to say, maybe both.) But I really like the old style, even if I’m not going all the way back into it. Seriously, there’s funny shit in there! Look at this: “I got mine in pink, because I hate pink – I’m blonde and blue and so pink makes me feel like Barbie, which is only anything but heinous when it’s Barbie getting railed in the ass. Then it’s awesome.” That’s fucking hilarious! I don’t care if I’m the only one laughing, I crack myself right the fuck up! But this thing is one hundred single-spaced, typewritten pages long, and the best line in it is in the second post? There’s something wrong with that. So I asked myself what it was that made the early stuff come out so differently. I think it’s because those posts each had some kind of a point. They were all going somewhere. I had something to say besides “Yep, had sex.” So I tried to look at the new, as yet un-transcribed pages and figure out what the point was there… There wasn’t one. Not really. But as I was going back & reminiscing over the old stuff, I came upon The Way of the Moment. The point of that one is pretty cliché – we play by our own rules, I don’t give a fuck how anybody else defines this shit, blah, blah, blah. You’ve heard it before. However, that doesn’t make it meritless, and the idea translates. So I’m going to listen to my own advice and ignore any fabricated rules I feel like, even if I’m the one who fabricated them. (See my rambling and inconsistent defense of come versus cum.) If I have a point to make, I’ll make it. Maybe I’ll keep a better eye out for them, even. If I don’t, I’ll give you whatever graphic porn I’ve got in the bank. (Speaking of rambling and irrational declarations like the come/cum thing, have you noticed my refusal to call this erotica? I don’t want to derail this train what has to be a fourth time in one paragraph, but it’s intentional.) Anyway, somewhere in the mix, maybe a point or a shiny new thesis statement will pop up somewhere that I didn’t see cumming. (Hahahaha!)
Or it won’t, and that will be okay, too.Alright, so when last we left our fair heroine, she’d been assigned the task of finding a flogger suitable to the new era. I cannot adequately express to you how well I succeeded. Having exhausted the mediocre selections at the local adult stores, I went online. Dangerous, since you can’t try it out on your arm or your leg before you buy it. Also, I trust you have some inkling of just how much BDSM equipment is available online? Daunting as fuck. I perused noncommittally through those huge warehouse places, but as soon as I found Leatherbeaten, I knew that was where I was going to stop. The flogger descriptions were all written in a familiar vernacular that told me exactly what I needed to know, and there was a sense of humor inherent to the whole site. And then there it was. The Harlequin. I think my nipples got hard as soon as I saw what it was made out of. You can guess, can’t you? Rope. It was made out of rope. (Clouds part, ray of sunlight, and the choir goes “Aaaaaahhhh…”) I emailed back and forth with Billy (super nice, probably a ton of fun to get boozy with), and talked about options. He was out of purple, but was happy to make one especially for me, in… Red. See how poetically it comes back to the previous flogger discussion? If there are gods, at least one of them’s a kinkster for sure.
The day it arrived, I went back and forth between feeling like I shouldn’t touch it and not being able to leave it alone. It wasn’t really mine to handle, it was only mine to receive. I swung it against my leg once but immediately felt guilty, so I settled for abstaining from holding the grip, and just indulged in feeling the rope ends against my palms and fingers. Eventually I hung it over the bedroom doorknob and waited for my husband to come home from work. I did all the prep and bath and shaving and lotion and crap to keep myself from going insane, and to make sure my skin was smooth and supple enough to sustain the night ahead. I let my husband know the package had arrived, so he wouldn’t be ambushed by a naked girl throwing herself at him in a puff of honey dust, the minute he walked in the door. (Actually, I went without honey dust, if you care. Just the good lotion. It makes for grabbier flesh and just slightly more palpable contact.) I tried to girl it up in skimpy little white things with tiny flowers, going for contrast with the thrashing that was surely coming, but (beside the fact that I can never take that shit seriously, anyway), I didn’t last an hour before I had to tear it all off and be nakednakednaked.
He put on a Sex & Submission porn, and left the sound on. We never leave the sound on, so that was an interesting little embellishment. Something about the sound of the lash falling, as an accessory to the percussive soundtrack of the room. He started off testing the Harlequin on my ass and thighs. Love at first strike. All the fire and burn of the other floggers, but with the heavy smack I was missing in them. A bruisey thwack of seven looped tails, and the sensation of rope wrapping around me as it came down. No question it was going to leave deep purple marks. What is it about the marks? In the very first post here, I made reference to sex that you can see the evidence of on your body the next day, but it’s not just a reminder of the sex itself. It’s more than that, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Sure, there’s an element of exhibitionism to it when they’re somewhere you can’t hide, or when you’re changing in the locker room at the gym with an undeniably purple ass, but that doesn’t cover it either. It’s like carrying something with you, something less fleeting than the moments in which you got the welts and bruises. It’s something you gained from the experience, something created by it, and it’s a part of you, so that you’ve somehow become more than you were before.
I was given instruction to lie back and play with myself while he watched. But of course he didn’t just watch. He had me grab and pull at my pussy and my clit, and the ropes would come down on me whether my hand was in the way or not. At the same time he talked to me about where this evolution was going, the admission of pain as one of my primary sources of pleasure, made me say it out loud, confirmed that he’d known before I’d admitted it to myself, and he flogged my snatch and the insides of my thighs while he did it. He went down on me then, with that languid, sucking, hedonistic mouth ravishing that’s very like being slowly devoured. When I started to climb the near side of the orgasm, he pulled away and went back to flogging me. Know what’s better than rope landing hard on flesh? Rope landing hard on wet flesh. He flogged me until I couldn’t keep still or quiet, then instead of punishing me for it, he took me in his mouth again. As a woman sleeping with a man, there’s something thrilling about the thought, when it’s had at that particular moment, of part of your body being inside of him, instead of part of his being inside of you. It never fails to escalate my arousal. The punishment came when I was denied again, at the rise of climax. And the rope tails came down between my legs and on my clit, made so extra sensitive by the near-orgasms and their contrast to the spikes of pain, and it wasn’t as long as the last time until I was squirming and crying out. Then again his mouth was on me, and I could think only of the wet, tactile kinship, the sameness of pussy and mouth, mouth and pussy, tongue and clit and labia, and warm, wet, pink flesh that parallels both chambers. That’s another thought that does it to me every time, but again I was denied.
He lifted my knees, and pinned them back against my sides. With the language of a glance, that comes from being together for a very long time, he told me to hold my feet up, hands to the arches, keeping them wide over my head. It tipped my ass so that he had access to the underside, which he flogged with side swings and lifting strokes that came up from below. It gave him access to the backs of my thighs, which he flogged with hard down-strokes and across. He went on until I wasn’t sure I could. I have never safeworded with him. It’s not that he doesn’t push my boundaries – in fact it’s a particular pleasure of his to do so – but he can always see it on my face, and backs off right before I have to vocalize it. He told me later this night that he thought I was going to safeword then, and it made me wonder. There has to be an arousal in a dominant to bring a sub to the point of safeword. To hear it. I’m sure there are plenty who go there intentionally (though hopefully very carefully), and routinely. I wonder if he thinks about it. As I mentioned, I changed mine recently, and for the first time in my life. I did it to acknowledge the stripping away of that last pretense (by last I mean most recent – who knows if there are more), to let go of the word along with the time when I wasn’t admitting I might actually need it. It was never said aloud, except to confirm it, and I think it’s kind of fitting to cut it loose unspoken like that. I don’t know if I’ll ever use the new one. Maybe, maybe not, but I like it, I like having it. It has a potential that the other one lost under its pile of dust. It’s the potential that I like, I think. The not knowing. And I wonder if it made him think about it. I don’t know if bringing me to it would turn him on or horrify him. (Which is weird, because I feel like I should know that. How have we never had that conversation?) I think I’ll wait until he’s read this, and then ask him. On the night in question though, I did not. I was however, so overcome by being delivered from the flogging, when he stopped and went down on me again, that I got sloppy and let go of my feet. Try to guess what happened next.
When he tired of punishing me, or maybe (hopefully), when he reached the point of being unable to continue not fucking me, he turned me onto my side and took me from behind. He did his progression and repetition thing where he starts super slow and goes on fucking me like that until my pussy melts onto his cock. Then he increases everything until he’s railing me fast and hard, and it’s like the orgasm is going to start at the very core of me, travel out from under my ribcage and my diaphragm and engulf the entire lower half of my body. After that point he was so deep inside me that he was just crushing himself into me and I was squirming back on him and squeezing his cock with my cunt.* And then, just when I’m going to die of pleasure, he stops, pulls almost all the way out of me, teases me with just the head of his cock nudging barely into my wet snatch, and he starts the whole thing over again. He still didn’t let me come. He pulled me up and put me forward over a wedge pillow. You know the stiff, triangle-shaped ones? High side under my hips, apex under my boobs, face in the mattress. He kicked my knees out wide, picked up the Harlequin and went to town on everything from my shoulder blades to my calves, including this upswing that would hit my whole pussy at once. I was beside myself. Went to another place, for awhile. In fact, I don’t know how that particular portion of the evening ended. He might have let me have a #3. I’m honestly not sure.
The next thing I was aware of, was kneeling to face him. My front and my breasts were disproportionately pain-free, compared with the rest of me which was lit up like a string of Christmas tree lights – a hot, blinking fire hazard. I took my breasts and nipples in my hands, squeezing until my fingers were wet and slippery, holding them towards him for approval. He flogged them, of course. Again, wet skin under seven falling loops of rope. I think he was swinging more lightly than before, or my front bruises less easily than my back, because the stripes he raised there were gone by morning. He bent me forward again then, this time fucking instead of flogging, while he held my upper body flat. I remember the weight with which he held me down; I was restrained as surely as I would have been, had he strapped me to a table. (Which we don’t do anymore. I very nearly lost consciousness once, years ago, in Vegas. Good times.) He started to do what I thought was the same slow to fast, tip to depth maneuver he’d worked me over with earlier, but then one hand came off my back and I heard the flogger just the moment before it came down. He was definitely working more carefully now, because he was flogging and fucking me at the same time. Not even sparing my ass and unders, while he was inside me. Brave man. (Or a switch in disguise!)
He left off then and motioned for me to suck his cock. It was hard to concentrate at first, because the flogging didn’t cease, and the angle (from over my head to come down on my ass), whipped the ends of the Harlequin’s tails right into my pussy. Finally I got my head around it though, and worked out that what was working for him was the deep stuff. So I went deep. I used the suicide squeeze with a slow withdrawal, straight deep throat with a swallow, deep throat with a tongue swirl, deep throat with an under-lick, deep throat with a pulse… Basically I got to work. Then, like he’d done to me, I backed out almost altogether and played with the tip. Tongue trap, ripe peach, I had to modify the Vegas trick because I was coming from straight in front of him, but it worked well enough to slow the attention of the flogger that was still messing with my control. I took the opportunity and lifted off him so he could see the volume of spit still left from all the deep throating, and I swirled it around the head of his cock, while he watched. That did it. A moment later he was pulling me up onto him.
First there were a couple of deliciously smooth g-spot orgasms that oozed slowly, instead of gushing. Then he started talking me through my own rising climax. I was trying to recreate the awesomeness he’d given me with the slow to fast maneuver of hours earlier, but he was sitting up in a position that is one of my very favorites and instructing me on how to fuck him until I came, in this low, ongoing murmur, and squeezing my breasts until his fingers were wet, and I was closer and closer to just losing control in my typical cock riding frenzy. Then he said “Poor little clit, beaten and hasn’t come – rub it in your cum that’s all over my stomach…” And that was it, for me. Remember the vaginal orgasms I dubbed “Super Twos?” That sent me into the huge, ongoing, explosion of one of those, followed in short order by a second, of the same magnitude. Slightly ironic that he’d been addressing my clit, when he triggered that, and I didn’t have a clitoral orgasm all night.
There was more cock sucking after that. I can’t resist his cock when it’s covered in my come. I brought him to the edge and backed off a couple of times, and was practicing the good gag (because it’s not enough to know how to keep from gagging, sooner or later you’re going to fuck that up, you also have to learn how to let yourself gag, and still stay in control). (Okay, plus, I think he gets a charge out of watching me gag on his cock.) I could have let him come then, but the fact was that I wanted him in my ass. He was still sitting as he had been when I climbed off of him, and I was tucked in between his spread knees, so all I had to do was turn around. I mean, I could have climbed back up where I’d come from and ridden myself to an anal orgasm like that, but my husband’s a visual guy; I wanted him to be able to see. Also, I can’t fuck him like that without losing control, and I wanted to make it slow for him. So I turned around and slid my feet and calves under his spread thighs, putting us ass to cock. I started with just the tip, working a little deeper then withdrawing, then the tip again and working a little deeper still, then withdrawing, then deeper still and withdrawing, while he watched. By the time I had him at full depth in my ass, I knew I was going to lose control like this, too. I was alternating between straight-up fucking him, and burying him in a backward grind and squeeze, when it happened. I’d wanted him to come in my ass, but I started getting hit with more of those long, low, slow-ooze g-spot orgasms I’d had earlier, and I got lost in my own pleasure. He probably would have come for me there, but I fucked it up in the throes of climaxing and blew the rhythm completely. I decided to make it up to him by blowing something else.
He was all about the tip now, super sensitive to every move. I know what that’s like because he does it to my clit all the time, so I went kitten mouth on him. I teased him back from that with more of the ripe peach (which is exceedingly wet), and the tongue trap (which is exactly what it sounds like), and then I drew him onto a newer thing I’m trying to work the kinks out of. (I’m thinking of calling it the older sister, because when I fuck it up I end up punching myself in the mouth.) Anyway, it’s a variation on the half hand job, half blow job theme, so when he did come, it was one of those spilling, splashing, dripping-over carnivals of wetness that drenched me before I even got to swallow it.
Cum stings a little, on fresh welts.
(Billie for Billy – Thanks darlin’! And hey, what else can you make out of rope...?)
