Deviant: so since I broke your boob
Gemini: LOL
Deviant: i'll have to break your ass next. start preparing for some fisting :)
Gemini: OMG
Deviant: :)
Deviant: YUM!
Gemini: I have no words
Deviant: good:)
Deviant: i'm sure you will find a few
Deviant: so did you Google what's in store for you?
Gemini: Not yet, but that's the plan
Deviant: no need to, you're not going to be able to do anything :)
Gemini: I am scared, looking at these
Deviant: it prolly won't fit
Deviant: we sure are gonna try!!!
I spent three days and three nights downloading photos, watching videos, reading up on techniques, preparation, and potential harms. I bought a fresh, new enema kit in addition to some drug store enemas. I asked questions, I tried to mentally prepare, and...
I freaked the fuck out.
Miss Apryl: Duuude, that shit's gonna HURT.
Miss Apryl: LOL, his hands are SO BIG.
Gemini: I know....... OMG I know........
Miss Apryl: And I know him well enough to know that if he said he's going to do it, he WILL.
Gemini: I have zero doubt
Miss Apryl: His huge hands ramming into your asshole. Fuck, dude, I'm all panicky and it doesn't even involve me.
Gemini: Right?!
Gemini: Jesus
Miss Apryl: What if he blows your O ring?
Miss Apryl: Tears it.
Miss Apryl: Then when you poop or pee it burns.
Gemini: OMG I have been looking at pics and reading this stuff.
Gemini: boggle
Miss Apryl: You're going to be like a human puppet.
Miss Apryl: I wonder if it will feel good.
Miss Apryl: You're totally giving yourself like several enemas, right?
Miss Apryl: Although, when you're in that deep, I doubt that'd matter.
Gemini: Soda cans and his fists..... Good? No. Torturous.
Gemini: Several.
Miss Apryl: Whoa.
Miss Apryl: You almost need to do a colon cleanse for that though.
Miss Apryl: Cause if he's in that far, he might as well go elbow deep.
Miss Apryl: I never understood fisting. So now I'm dying to hear how it goes.
Miss Apryl: Let me clarify: Anal fisting.
Gemini: I am..... I have no words.
Miss Apryl: What do you mean?
Gemini: I am freaked out! LOL I keep trying to articulate and I can't. Already started writing.
Miss Apryl: Haha
Miss Apryl: You'll be fine, I'm sure. Well, except for the limp.
Gemini: Enemas, extended butt plug work, I don't what else to do.
Miss Apryl: LOL, that's all you CAN do I guess.
Gemini: But I will do the best I can
Miss Apryl: And maybe get a bit.
Miss Apryl: I'm sure.
Gemini: I have a dental bite thing
Miss Apryl: Bring that.
Gemini: nods**
Gemini: O.o
Miss Apryl: LOL
Miss Apryl: You'll be FINE.
Miss Apryl: I'll be mentally holding your hand.
Miss Apryl: Holding up one of your legs.
Miss Apryl: lol
Gemini: I know I am safe - but fine?
How in the world.... ?
He sent me a photo of his hand covering most of the real estate on an 8 1/2" x 11" piece of paper. I can take a lot, yeah, but my ass is not ready for that. I cleaned every day, even if just with warm water. I made sure I had lube; even knowing he is stocked, I was over-preparing in my panic.
I tweeted random comments about researching it, I made my Yahoo! status a collection of "Oh, Shit!" moments and "What the hell am I getting into?" moments.
Every conversation he and I had was more detailed, things I should consider, and making sure I was properly prepared.
Making sure I was properly scared.
Deviant: your ass all puckered up yet?
Gemini: Couldn't be any tighter at the moment
Deviant: do tell
Gemini: Mask panic has nothing - zero - on this nervousness
Deviant: you need to learn to like my toys. they get sad when they feel rejected
Gemini: :( I don't want to reject anything
Deviant: simple then. don't :)
Gemini: :-<
Deviant: man looking at my hands...
Deviant: they are fucking huge
Gemini: Yes, they are........
Even Miss Apryl, a mutual friend, was, as you can see above, supportive. She was so excited for me, but also the sense of panic she gave me was worse. Did I wonder if I was being toyed with? Of course I did. I am intelligent, I can say that and defend it. "However, comma...." They both know so much more about this than I did and I couldn't - I wouldn't - take anything for granted.
I lost sleep, I doubled my porn downloads for the year in less than a week, and I trusted that I was safe. I texted a friend out of state and told him I wondered if this was people fucking with my head... but I also said there was no way I was going in unprepared or thinking for a moment that it was an impossibility. Like I said, nothing is taken for granted.
I was asked by Deviant if I had any last words. I asked him not to perforate something, make my rectum fall out, nor leave me needing medical attention or lifetime adult care.
"Duh."
And I trusted that.
gulp
He texted me. "7 or 7:15? I forgot."
"7:15"
"k"
I was worried about the timing. I had already asked for a few extra minutes while chatting the day before. I said I should be able to make it by 7:15 and he seemed upset that I wasn't confident about it. I had to work, I explained, until at least 5:00... and I wanted - needed - time to go home, get my things, clean up, etc.
"If you are not here by 7:30," he said, "I will jihad your ass."
"Yes, Sir."
I knocked on the door.
He opened the door holding out his iPhone. The time showing on the face was 19:15. I was right on time. He looked disappointed. "I was really hoping..." he didn't have to finish. We both knew what he meant. Just as he said that, and I crossed the threshold into the house, the time changed. "Dammit. Look at that. So close."
I just smiled. A nervous, semi-forced smile. But I did smile.
He noticed. "Scared?"
I shook my head. "No, not scared. I am safe... Nervous."
"You should be."
We gather beverages and head upstairs. He flips up my skirt as we're walking up and I laugh. "Problem?" he asks.
"No, not at all."
"I like the shoes," he adds. Tonight I've worn for him black patent stilettos with red ribbon corseting at the heel. I smile and thank him.
We walk into the play room and he hands me an orange plastic cup with ice water. "This one is yours," he says. Then adds, "You know the drill."
I thank him for the water, set it down on the dresser, and begin lighting the candles. He moves in and out of the room for a moment, and I hear him turn on some music.
Something has to change.
Undeniable dilemma.
Boredom's not a burden
Anyone should bear.
Constant over stimulation numbs me
But I would not want you
Any other way.
Just not enough.
I need more.
Nothing seems to satisfy.
"Appropriate first song," he says with a smile. It is "Stinkfist" by Tool.
"First, show me your broken boob." I expose my breast and show him the small spot where the skin at the base of the nipple was torn slighly from the areola during our last session. It was mostly healed, but you can still see where there is fresh skin growth, slightly discolored. He flicks me, then squeezes it lightly. "You can put that away."
He moves in front of me and places a board on the floor at my feet and instructs me to kneel in front of it and place my hands on it, palms up. I am nervous. There is a hammer and nails on the dresser. He has shared videos with me showing those exact items in use.
Then he tells me to kneel on my hands, being careful of the injured finger on my left hand. I do as I am told, and the pain in excruciating. The feeling is lightning sharp and spreading through my hands, my wrists, and - because of the awkward position - my legs, ankles and feet. My back was shaking, my core muscles were tight, and all I could do was breathe through it... or rather, try.
"I find," he says, "that pain helps to focus my mind." I nod. "Focus," he tells me. I nod again.
He kneels in front of me, his back straight, his hands on his knees. He just looks at me for a moment before leaning in. "I am not going to fist you tonight," he begins. His voice is quiet, calm, in my ear. "You are not ready for that." I dropped my head, and all I could think of at that moment was how thankful I was. "We'll work up to that. I will be, however, stretching your ass, abusing it, and I will make you cry." I nodded.
"Thank you," I said.
"Thank you, what?" he asks.
"Thank you for not fisting me tonight."
"Thank you,what?" he repeats. He's now holding the back of my neck, his fingers in my hair, pushing me down slightly, pressing my body weight harder against my hands. "Didn't we just have a conversation a few days ago about what to call me?"
"Yes, Deviant. Thank you, Sir."
He sits back a little so he is facing me again and uses his hands to press my knees into my hands. The pain shoots through my hands and I cry out. "This week," he says, "I was mind fucking you." I nod again. "We have been mind fucking you," he says, referring to my friend's Yahoo messages that helped scare me. "I have been nice to you. Easy on you."
Again he tells me he will make me cry. I nod.
My hands are so pained they are beginning to feel... not numb, but... I can't explain it. Almost disconnected, but still so painful, so much a part of me. I am biting my lip and trying to breathe through the pain running through my body. I am starting to shake harder now and just want it to stop. That pained, disconnected feeling is spreading and I feel like I am losing control, like I will fall. And yet, I cannot move even if I tried.
"In the interest of full disclosure," he begins; I am not looking at him, but I swear I see him grin. "I will be fucking with you tonight."
He reiterates a third time that he will be making me cry.
We sit like this for a moment and he asks, "Does this position hurt?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Uncomfortable as fuck, isn't it?" he asks.
"Yes, Sir."
"Imagine that on concrete. For hours. I have done it."
We make eye contact and he waits a moment. Then, "You may get off the board and your hands."
I just nod as I remove my knees from my hands and sit back on my heels. He removes the board and goes to the racks while I rub my hands. When he turns back, I am leaning forward slightly to get off my shoes as I fix them back onto my feet.
"Are you moving?" he asks. I can tell from his tone that I should not have. I said I was just fixing my shoes. He doesn't reply, but he doesn't have to. I understand.
He comes to me tells me to close my eyes. I do and I feel him fit the mask to my face. He doesn't strap it on yet, but holds it there. "We will make you love this mask," he says. "You will breathe, yes?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You will breathe and you will not panic, yes?" He presses the mask closer to my face and I cannot speak. I nod. "I have worn this mask and I can tell you that you can breathe in it. Panic is not an option, do you understand?"
I nod.
"You will learn to get through this, you will learn to appreciate this. You will learn to love this mask." He lowers my head so that he can put the mask on me properly, pressing my face into his pelvis as he straps it on to me and adjusts it. He holds me there, I am leaning forward on my hands and knees, my masked face against the fly of his jeans. He sits me up slightly and uses his hands to press the mask against my face, hold it there, and keeps reminding me to breathe.
He helps me stand.
He comes up behind me and takes off my sweater. He hugs me from behind and asks if I am comfortable. I nod. He asks if I need to panic. I shake my head. Hindsight being 20/20, I think I lied... sort of. Not intentionally. While I did not need or want to panic - I want to learn, I want to accept, I want to enjoy his toys as he does - I was afraid I would panic. The first time in this mask I was just as confident - for about 30 seconds - and then I couldn't handle it. It was too close, too restrictive. I panicked and shook my head and silently screamed even as he removed it. The physical feeling tonight was no different. It was like second skin, restricting movement, slightly restricting my breathing. I could feel my worry about panic welling up - panicking about panicking? - and I kept trying to breathe, I kept trying to push through.
He brings his hands up to my face and throat, holding both gently but firmly. He is applying pressure, making sure I breathe and, at the same time, controlling my breathing. Now I really want to panic. I focused on my arms being free, my legs being free. I knew I was safe, but knowing that and recognizing how much freedom I still had was little consolation. He changes the pressure, the position of his hands, sometimes covering my entire face, sometimes holding my throat with both hands. He places one hand at the center of my rib cage and one over my mouth and nose, alternating pressure and release, controlling my breathing. As much as I want to, I do not gasp; I want to do this, I want to show him I can do this. I breathe as I am allowed, I focus on the warmth of his body, his hands, and I remember how disappointed I was when I panicked the last time. I don't want to disappoint. I want him to continue, I want to show him I can do this with him, for him. In my head I am shaking my head, crying out, and stopping the scene. But I breathe through it, I know I can handle this, I am resolved to be stronger.
He stops.
"Good job," he says, releasing me. "You did very well."
He removes the mask and brushes my hair out of my face. "See?" he asks, smiling, "You can do this. We can do this."
I smile. It is weak, I know, but it is true. I did it. I made it through.
"Give me your gag." I get it from my bag and hand over to him a red "beginners" or "comfort fit" ball-gag. It's shaped much like a child's pacifier, though - obviously - much larger. The name is deceptive. While it is not completely uncomfortable, it makes it difficult to place your tongue or swallow any saliva building up in your mouth. I didn't know any of that until tonight, of course. As with many things with him, this, too, was a first for me. I bought it, I owned it, but had never been gagged with anything more than a silk tie or sash. (Well, there was the rope monkey's fist at the toy party in March... but that was for exhibition, not play. Alas, I digress...)
He has me hold my hair out of the way and he puts the gag on me. "Can you spit it out? Push it out? Move it?" I shook my head. I did try to move things around and raised my hand. "Yes?" he asks. I can't speak with any clarity, so I reach up and adjust the gag slightly so it feels straight. When I am done, I put my hands down at my sides.
He places the hood over my head and ties me into it. He hands me what feels like a soup ladle. "You cannot speak, I understand that. If you begin to panic I want you to drop this, throw this across the room, whatever. Sail it at the wall, whatever. This is your panic button, this is how you need to communicate so I understand. Do you understand?"
I nod, holding the ladle tight against my abdomen.
He begins breath control again. He grabs the back of the hood and pulls my head back, placing one hand over my mouth and nose, pressing the gag into me. His body is pressed tight against my back. He is so tall, my head is against his chest, under his shoulder. I feel one hand move to my throat and hold me there for a moment before both hands are on my face, pressing harder and harder.
I am squeezing the ladle, holding it tight. I will not drop it, I will not throw it.
He is telling me to breath but it feels more like he is daring me to breathe. He has control. He decides. His hands alternate from my throat to my face. I am sometimes squeezed around the chest. He does this for a few more minutes before stopping.
His hands on my arms, he is rubbing my skin, squeezing me gently. I know he is making a connection, checking my body temperature, and thinking, all at once. "Good," he says, "you did great." If I could smile, I would.
But I can't.
Instead, I want to gasp, cry out. Between the mask and the hood, the addition of the gag, I am almost ready to sink to the floor and have a good cry. I know there are tears in my eyes. The quiet intensity of it, the idea that no one can hear me if I wanted them to... The breath control - usually a favorite of mine - was almost too much with the added restrictions. I need to be reminded so often to breathe that being masked, gagged, and hooded while someone controls my breath was, at the least, disconcerting and, at the most, emotionally crippling. Even when bound and jacketed last time, then strapped down, I had my face clear, my mouth and nose could breathe.
Tonight I felt more vulnerable with the mask, gag, and hood then I had ever felt in my life.
He doesn't know this. Yet.
He takes the ladle from me and asks if I am comfortable.
All I can do is nod, again feeling my eyes well up slightly.
He has me hold my hands and places the hanger for the straight jacket in them. I can't see it, but I know what it is and why. "Hold this," he says, as he removes the jacket. "Do not drop it."
He takes the hanger away from me and tells me to put my arms up. "Good girl," he says, "I don't have to tell you twice."
He slides the jacket onto me and does the bindings, careful to remove the hood strings hanging down my back. He turns me around and binds my arms across the front of my body before he binds them with a vertical strap at the middle.
"Wait here," he says. "Do not move."
I stand there for a few minutes. I am not entirely certain if he has left the room or not, though I do hear the door open and close. I cannot see, I am not sure what I am hearing through the leather hood. I feel a small sense of panic as I realize that I am now more vulnerable than ever. Yes, I have my legs, but short of standing, sitting, or kicking - at what? - what can I really do like this? In one night, in less than an hour, I have been shown vulnerability to the nth degree... and realize I am breathing, I am calming myself down, and I can do this. I want to tell him, seek some approval, but I also know I need to do this for me.
I am listening to the music, breathing in and out, when I hear the door again open and close.
"Did you move?" he asks sternly. I shake my head.
"Did you try to fuck with me and sneak another photo while I was out of the room?" I shake my head harder. He sounded... angry?
He waits a moment then says, "Good."
He says he wants to start with OTK and moves me to the spanking bench. At first I am standing, leaning forward, my chest on the flat part of the bench. This is not totally uncomfortable, but I am afraid that I will not be able to hold this position very long, especially when he begins to... what is he going to do?
He hits me with an open hand. He does this repeatedly, hitting the same spots over and over, sometimes a straight hit, sometimes an underhand hit, sometimes hitting my ass hard and fast with both hands. He is behind me, next to me, and leaning over me. It is stinging, painful, and muscle-deep. It feels like he uses a closed fist and then again I feel an open palm. He hits the top of my legs and the top of my ass. He hits me on each side and sometimes right in the middle. He hits me hard enough to make me jump forward, pushing off the floor and against the bench.
"Let's move you a little," he says, and helps me bring my legs up on to the supports that are a part of the bench. He places a leather pillow under my face. "Better."
He is at the racks, I can hear things moving around.
I hear the sharp cut of air and then I feel the sting. A cane.
I cry out, scream, muffled, inhibited by the gag and hood. I see stars behind my closed eyes and I feel tears well up.
"16 orgasms," he says. I shake my head.
He hits me again and I scream again.
"16 orgasms," he says again. I shake my head harder.
He hits me again.
"I said I was going to make you cry," he says darkly. I nod. "Are you crying?" I don't want to admit it, and I am not quite crying. My eyes are wet, but I am not there... yet. I shake my head.
Another hit. I've counted four.
I want to fall over and I am now ready to acknowledge that I am crying.
But he doesn't ask me again. He comes up to me and runs his hands over my ass and legs."How was that for a warm up?" he asks. I nod. "16 orgasms, you greedy girl." I shake my head. "You are greedy, aren't you?" I shake my head. "You aren't? Really?" I shake my head.
He slaps my ass, hard, many times in quick, painful succession. "We shall see."
He moves away and he tells me this is where the fun begins. He says he will be stretching my ass, really making me cry. That this will be his favorite part thus far. I nod.
Admittedly, the order in which things happen sometimes gets fuzzy. I know that this is part of the sensory deprivation aspect... and it works. I feel confused sometimes, a little lost and vulnerable - even in writing this - because I do not want to leave anything out and I don't want to confuse things. I don't want to lose the rhythm or devalue a specific series of events. I am adding this here because even in the moment, gagged, hooded, face down, ass in the air, I am losing my focus, things are getting fuzzy, and this scares me. I manage my space by managing my perceptions, focusing on music or conversation as guidelines. I am usually fully aware of what I am saying or doing in the moment (or rather, what is being done to me), and I know that when I process it later, I will know more about what was going on and how I felt about it. Having that awareness helps me enjoy the scene that much more and, I hope, makes me a better partner.
And now I am losing that focus.
This is new, this is not just a little frightening, and now we're entering even more new territory tonight. The third instance of feeling more vulnerable than I ever have before. In my head, I am shaking and scared... no, I am safe. Not scared... nervous, apprehensive. He already said we weren't going to try fisting tonight... but that doesn't mean we won't try other things to prepare me for that eventuality.
And this little light of mine,
a gift you passed on to me;
I'm gonna let it shine to guide you
safely on your way...
I hear Tool's "10,000 Days." I am trying to find my focus. I am breathing.
His hand is on my lower back now. He pulls my panties down but not off, and and I feel him apply lube to my asshole. In his hands is something metal, cold. I can feel it against my skin as he prepares me. I feel it pressing against me, slowly sliding in. He tells me is going to use a speculum to open me up... rip me, tear me apart. He lets this sink in, touching the metal to my skin. My breathing becomes a combination of held breath - I was so afraid to move I became afraid to breathe - and rapid, short breaths.
He tells me I need to relax and I do, breathing slowly, as he presses it against me, into me. "Relax," his voice is softer now. "I want you to lean back into it," he tells me. I do, steady and slow, I take it.
"Good girl."
Is he adjusting it? I feel it stretching, pushing in deeper, opening me up. "This is amazing," he tells me. "I could stretch you out and stick my cock in your ass without touching anything." If I could have, I would have been biting my lip. It wasn't painful, yet, but it was uncomfortable, intense. Oh what the fuck am I saying? Of course it was painful. My ass was being stretched, I could feel the metal getting larger, pushing out. I could feel the pressure intensify as he pushed it deeper inside. I had tears in my eyes and I was chewing on my gag.
Finally, I admitted pain and cried out. How far could it go, I wondered. How far could I go? I was beginning to worry. Would I go as far as he needed me to go? Would I fail and not be able to handle it?
He leaves the speculum inside me and says, "You should see the size of this thing." He is hitting me lightly with what I can only guess to be an enormous dildo. I could feel it on my skin, a heavy rubber thing that, even lightly, hurt when he hit me with it. I wonder if he will use both? How far did he open me? My mind is racing and we're moving so fast I can't process. I need to focus. I need to breathe.
He removes the speculum and explains, as he is removing it, that it wasn't actually a speculum at all but a knobbed, graduated metal dildo. I was so sure it was the speculum, so convinced he was using it to open me up, rip me if he so wanted to, and make me cry.
And he was mind-fucking me.
He fucks my ass with the massive dildo, the intensity and depth changing as he does. Sometimes I think it is with the music, but ultimately I know it is his rhythm, his preference. At times I am crying out and at others I am moving with it. "I didn't say you could move your ass, did I?" he asks. No, Sir, no, I am sorry... I shake my head because I cannot verbalize what I am thinking.
He moves up next to me and asks in a harsh whisper if I would like to have a cock in my mouth. I nod. He calls me greedy and says something about already having 16 orgasms. I shake my head. He calls me a greedy whore. I shake my head again.
He asks if I want his cock in my mouth.
I shake my head.
"No?!" he asks. "My cock is amazing, isn't it?" I don't know if it is or is not; I don't respond. "Why not?" he asks. "Why don't you want my cock in your mouth?" I can't respond with a simple nod or shake of my head. I don't move. He is pushing my face into the pillow, pressing me into the bench. "Just imagine it..." he trails off.
"Ooooohhh," he is smiling, I think. "It's the rules, isn't it?"
I nod.
"You want to make sure we follow the rules."
I nod.
I am crying now. My face hurts, my ass and asshole abused, and now I am being questioned about the rules by which we play. It seems, all at once, to hit me. Silent tears I can no longer keep back begin streaming down my face under the mask. He holds me down like this for a moment or two before he leans in close, squeezing my neck with his hand. "You can't have it anyway," he says with a quiet intensity. "It's not yours." I nod my understanding.
He lets go and he moves behind me again, fucking me again with the dildo. He asks me if I want to come and I nod. He keeps pushing, harder and deeper, and I can feel it building. I need this release. Tonight has been so intense, so painful in so many ways, that I am - in my head - begging for an orgasm. Please, please... I need.... I need...
He stops. I am slapped, hit, beat. He makes me want to scream in pain and the change from almost pleasurable to sheer pain just adds to my confusion. My head is spinning, my body hurts, I feel unable to process.
He stops. The dildo is back, and I am forced to process anew. He gets me close, my body is writhing, though I know I shouldn't. I can't help it. I can't...
He says I can come.
I am so close, and he doesn't stop. He fucks me until I come, until I cry out through the gag and the hood. Until my body lifts slightly off the bench and falls again against the pillow, knocking it to the floor. He asks me if I came and I nod. I am breathing heavy, both from physical release and mental exhaustion, a total emotional release. He doesn't stop and I feel it building again. I can't help it, I move with it. I am so close, I am....
He stops.
"Greedy," he says. "Were you going to come again?"
I nod, crying.
"Greedy, greedy."
He starts again, bringing me to the edge and stopping. He does this a few times before changing toys. I feel the hard, cold, and metal inserted into my ass again. He fucks me with it until I am so close... again... and he stops. Again. My knees are shaking as he teases me, pushes me, makes me cry and moan as he stops at just the wrong - or right, depending on your perspective - time. I am brought to the edge of orgasm but given no release. He inserts his fingers into my pussy - hard - and calls me greedy again. I just nod.
I don't know how much of this I can take. He is spanking me in between; heavy-handed, full-palm hits to my ass. The music is starting to get fuzzy, I begin to feel separated from everything, feeling too much all at once and not being able to discern one toy, one sensation from the next. He moves - away, I think, as I don't feel him near me for a moment. I breathe, I try to focus. I don't remember what he says next, but I know it frightens me a little. I am not fearful for my safety, but this is more than I think I can handle, and I can only think of being afraid and, at the same time, wishing I could watch him work on me.
I feel a new toy inside my ass and I clench around it, waiting, nervous, telling myself to relax and not doing it. He asks me if I am ready. I do not answer. He asks me, again, if I am ready. I nod, slowly. "Are you sure?" he asks. "I have been nice to you up to this point," he explains, "but this next toy is really going to hurt you. Really, really hurt you."
I clench harder, afraid to let - whatever it is - move. "So," he asks a third time, "Are. You. Ready?"
I tried to nod. I think. I was waiting, worrying, crying, pained.
I hear a switch and I feel the inserted toy vibrating in my ass. I am so on edge, so ready, I almost come. He begins fucking me with the vibrator slowly but steadily. "Should I let you come?" he asks me. I nod. "I should? Have you earned it?" I nod. He fucks me with the vibrator and tells me I can come.
The build up is too much. I can feel it right there and its not happening. I am defeated, I think, I can't do this. It's not working.
"Come," he commands. I do. Body-shaking release, I cry out again, literally crying, feeling it pulse throughout my body. I feel deflated, collapsing against the bench, drained. The fuzziness in my head is dissipating - finally - and I feel more in control, more aware. I breathe. I concentrate on my breath and I feel more focused. If I could, I would have smiled.
He removes the hood and the gag but leaves me bent over the bench for a moment. He helps me up slightly so I can drink some water, then helps me back into position. He removes my panties and cleans the lube off my ass.
And he hits me.
I cry out. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. It feels like a flogger, maybe two, and it is not the firm pressure, relaxing car-wash type flogging. This stings; I am oversensitive already, and the pain is searing, knife-sharp. He continues, sometimes focusing on one spot, sometimes hitting me in what seems random spots but I am aware he is fully in control of his target, randomness be damned. He is hitting my back, my legs, my ass, harder and harder. At one point, I scream out. I am crying in earnest, this is so painful, but I do not call out a safe word, I do not call for "yellow," I do not ask him to stop. He steps back for a moment and I hear him say that Liz will love this. I flinch before I feel anything... Liz is his favorite single-tail, if not his favorite toy.
He beats me, whips me, flogs me. I am crying, crying out. At times I am lifted off the bench and others I am falling into it. I try to articulate my thanks, my appreciation, in between screams of pain, when I can focus enough to let him know. I am his to abuse, his to pain, and I take it.
I take it.
I begin to feel as if I can't take it.
And he stops.
I am crying into the bench, quietly, trying to breathe. His hands rub the skin on my ass and legs, one rubs my back through the leather jacket. He says I did a good job. He reminded me that he was going to make me cry. I only nod.
He helps me stand and he makes sure I am stable. He hugs me, holds me for a moment, his arms tight around me. I am calmed, I am breathing.
I am given a little more water before I am told to get up on the massage table. Still in the straight jacket, I manage a sitting position and swing my legs up. I lay on my back and, as instructed, pull my knees up to my chest. He uses a thick leather strap at the back of my knees to bind me to the table. He pulls my body down the table by my hips, my ass now exposed at the end of the table and my knees held in place at my chest with the strap.
He looks at my face and says, "You were crying." He is pleased. I just nod. "But I didn't get 16 orgasms," he adds. He moves around, I can see him but not what is reaching for.
I ask if I may make a correction. He says no and inserts something into my pussy. "This," he says, "is the speculum." I just nod, bite my lip, and wait for the pain. He stretches me, but not unbearably so. Enough to make me feel it, cringe, but it is not pain. I feel that pain is not far off, but he stops.
He grabs the cane again and slices the air with it. I cringe. He begins to hit me with it, but not like earlier. Tapping at my skin, up and down my legs and ass. He does this for a few moments and then hits me so hard I cry out, "Oh God!"
"If you are going to call out for anyone, it should be someone here," he tells me.
"Yeyeyeyesssss, Deviant." I can barely speak, that last hit was more than I could bear. I was at the end, I knew it.
"So what was your correction?" he asked me.
"I didn't have 16 orgasms. I wasn't allowed."
"So you lied to me?"
"No, no, Sir. You said I had to edge it, and ice it, and that I had minimum of 12 but no more than 16."
He thinks for a moment. "So you had 12 orgasms?" He hits me again.
"No!" I almost shout. "I didn't have any. You said I couldn't."
"How many did you have?" he asks.
"None. None. I had none."
"None? Not one?"
I shake my head.
"But you still pushed for 16..."
I nod.
"Greedy." He hits me again.
"Oh, Go...." I stop. Aaaauuuugh
"So you edged 16 times, iced, and did not come?" I nod. "Good girl. Still. 16.... I should hit you once for each." I don't say anything. "Well," he says, waiting on a response from me."
I nod.
"Good answer," he says, hitting me a fourth time.
"Thank you," I say through gritted teeth.
He puts the cane down and seems to contemplate the next step. "I should add 16 clothespins to each side of your pussy." I don't say anything. I can hear him go to the dresser, open a drawer, and remove them. He comes back, removes the speculum, and starts attaching the wooden pain pins to my pussy. "How many is that?" he asks. I tell him I don't know, I lost count. "Why?"
"I was listening to the music, trying to focus, trying to remember details." I gasp out the last part, as he is still placing clothespins as I am talking.
I hear Tool's "Vicarious" playing.
Why can't we just admit it?
Why can't we just admit it?
We won't give pause until the blood is flowin'
Neither the brave nor bold
Nor brightest of stories told
We won't give pause until the blood is flowin'
He keeps adding clothespins and then reaches for his cane again. Rapid taps instead of long strokes, but hard nonetheless; painful strikes against my thighs and ass, sometimes hitting the pins pulling my sensitive skin apart. I am crying out, in more pain than ever, and I am not quiet about it. He puts his free hand up and puts his middle three fingers in my mouth. "Bite down," he says. "If you bite hard enough, I'll stop." I bite down as he hits me harder, faster. The pain is blinding now, and as I bite him I find that I am trying not to hurt him.
"You control this," he reminds me. "Bite me hard enough and I will stop." I tell him, through teeth clenched on his skin, that I cannot. I am trying not to bite him. "Why?" he asks. "This is on you."
He hits me again and I bite him.
And again.
Harder.
Finally, I can't do it anymore, I bite as hard as I can and he stops.
I am crying again.
He puts the cane up and comes back, removing the leather strap holding my knees up and keeping me on the table. "Get down," he says, "carefully."
I do, or at least I try. I move my legs to the side and, with his help, slide off the table onto my feet. He kneels in front me and replaces clothespins that have come off in the process. "I said 'carefully'," he says. He slaps my pinned pussy and I jump slightly. That fucking hurt! He does it again and I am biting my lip, trying not to cry out, trying to take it. He stands up and turns me around, both of us facing the table, one of his arms across my shoulders holding me against him, his other hand hitting the clothespins. I can't bite my lip anymore, it hurts too much.
I cry out and he keeps going. He pulls off one or two of the small wooden clips and the blood rushes to an already sensitive spot. I can't decide which hurts worse, him hitting them or pulling them off like that. Oh, God is all I can think, but I dare not call it out again. He then teases me, playing with my clit, pressing me against the table and alternating between pleasure and pain. I can't take it, I can't.... all I can think of is the orgasm building.
"Are you going to come?" he asks. It's almost a dare, a challenge. I shake my head. "Do you want to?" I can't lie. I nod.
He goes faster now, pleasure and pain, I am crying out but, for what, I am no longer sure.
"Come," he tells me.
I do. I fall against the table and feel my legs weaken for a moment.
"How many is that?" he asks.
"Three." I think I am whispering.
He pulls me away from the table and reaches between my legs, ripping the remaining clothespins off of me and making me yell. "Oh, please," he says, mocking me. "Stop."
I am silent, or try to be, as he finishes. I stand there for a moment and he leads me back to the table and leans me over it. He unbuckles and removes the jacket. I am careful not to let it fall.
He tells me to pick up the clothespins and put them away. As we clean up, I ask about the toys I will be cleaning: I see my butt plug, I see the enormous dildo, I see a metal dildo/rod. I see the speculum. I also see what looks like a racquet ball with a knife stuck into it. And a sort of hooked... he sees my face and explains it is an attachment for the
He sprays down the leather and does some cleaning in the play room. I gather towels and paper garbage and feel him spray my ass and legs with the alcohol spray. "Shit!" I call out.
"Am I not being considerate and making sure you are cleaned up?"
"Yes, Sir. Thank you." I say with clenched teeth. The sting of alcohol on wounded skin isn't exactly my favorite sensation. Breathe, breathe.
We talk about the events leading up to and including tonight and he asks me if I really expected him to fist my ass tonight. I said that while I did think (and asked him earlier on the week if) we needed more preparation/practice, I will never assume. If he says he will do it, I will do my best to be prepared for that. Mind fuck or not, I know the minute I doubt his intent is the minute the respect and trust is gone. If he says it, I will accept it and face it.
A little later, as I am putting my shoes back on to leave, he tells me that I cannot wear the shoes out. "Those are our shoes." I am confused, so I lift my leg and offer him the shoe on my foot. "No," he says, laughing at me a little. "I mean, those shoes are yours and mine. They don't go out on the town; they belong only with you and me." I agree with a smile.
He again asks that I am physically OK, that I am feeling OK and that I can drive. He makes sure I am OK mentally.
He hugs me as I leave. "I do like a good mind fuck," he tells me with a grin.
"Yes, Sir."
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