We were having a conversation about play, fetishes, and fantasies. That is when I got my first glimpse into our play session this week. I was already warming up, and then he asked...
Deviant: do you like gagging?
Gemini: Yes!!!
Deviant: rough?
Gemini: I like rough :)
Gemini: Fuck, I am all sorts of hot right now.
Gemini: Grrrrrr
Gemini: ;)
Deviant: NO TOUCHY
Deviant: till I see you
Deviant: :)
Deviant: I love being the Top
Gemini: Yes, Sir.
Gemini: grumble
Gemini: ;)
Gemini: I was so ready to excuse myself for 10, too
Deviant: I know
In addition to, or rather spawned by, our conversation, I was given the task to look up information online and present it to him so we could discuss it and see how we felt about integrating it into our play.
Deviant: think of it as a research project
Gemini: Deadline?
Deviant: 1 hour
Deviant: or next week sometime
Deviant: :)
Gemini: LOL
Deviant: the sooner you do it, the more excited I get which has positive results for you.
Gemini: Prob can't do an hour, but I can offer by morning?
Gemini: I understand. :)
Deviant: :)
Gemini: I want to please you, esp. since I can't pleasure myself. ;)
Gemini: OK, fair to say I would anyway, but I'm horny and feeling ornery. ;)
Deviant: you have never been punished by me
Deviant: I promise you don't want to be
Gemini: I understand. :)
Deviant: the kneeling on your hands was just the tip of the iceberg
Gemini: nods
Gemini: Thank you.
Later in the day, as if I wasn't hot and bothered enough by all of this... he told me to go and stuff my panties inside of my pussy right then, in my office bathroom, and wear them there the rest of the day. I was to keep them stuffed inside me until I got home that night where I would then be allowed to masturbate as long and as often as I wanted.
One problem, I told him. I wasn't wearing any.
Deviant: normally that's great
Deviant: but ya just screwed yourself. no pleasure for you then
Gemini: Fuck I am wet thinking of it.
Gemini: Oh
Gemini: My
Gemini: God
Gemini: hangs head Yes, Deviant.
Deviant: I tried to be nice:)
Gemini: You did, thank you.
Gemini: You are thoughtful.
My Yahoo status and a tweet went out applauding myself (insert self-deprecating humor and sarcasm here) for cock-blocking myself. He was going to let me masturbate! He was going to let me cum! And through my own doing, intentional or not, my choice to go commando today removed that opportunity. I was self cock-blocked.
He is thoughtful, though. He messaged me on my way out that night and gave me an option.
Deviant: find me some information on your research by 9pm on FL and you're free to cum
Gemini: I am mobile. I wish I could comply.
Deviant: re-cock-blocked :)
Gemini: Yes, Deviant.
Deviant: hope u don't fuck up tomorrow :)
Gemini: !!!
Gemini: Might I? :(
Deviant: you did twice tonight :)?!?!
Gemini: :(
Gemini: How did I fuck up versus missed opportunities today?
Deviant: is there a difference in the end? :)
Gemini: Yes, Sir, quite a big one.
Gemini: Fucking up means I attempted and failed, faltered, did not deliver when I had every opportunity.
Deviant: I understand the difference :)
Deviant: but regardless you're not coming :)
I sent him a text to let him know I would arrive early, receiving back from him a confirmation that this was OK.
I could hear music as I approached the door... music loud enough to drown
out any of the knocking I would do to let him know I had arrived. I sent a text. "I am here."
"Come on in," he sends back. "I won't shoot you."
That made me feel comfortable... (insert sarcastic look here)
Actually, it did. I smiled as I let myself in. I knew he had a good day, and we both seemed in rather chipper moods overall, so the humor wasn't lost. We even talked about humor later, enjoying its presence in our friendship and valuing it highly.
I walked in and he was enjoying a live recording of Rush from the comfort of his sofa. I set my bag down and watched with him for a moment before he invited me to sit. That sofa is so comfortable I was a little afraid of not getting back up. Did I mention I was wearing a corset? He noticed; he had actually requested it for this evening.
At first, I politely declined the offer to sit - for the comfy-sofa reason and because I just wanted to stand for a while. Unlike our last session together wherein I was aware (or so I thought) of what was planned, tonight was mostly unknown to me. We discussed gagging - rough gagging - and I did pick up some flavored condoms for his toys, but there were no specific preparations or build up for tonight's visit. Standing, feeling like I had a confident posture, made me feel stronger in the unknown. I know I am safe with Deviant, and I like pain, predicaments, sensory deprivation, rough play... all of these things. But that doesn't mean I don't have some nervousness, some apprehension, going into a session.
He had me take a profile stance at one point and said, "Wow. Your tits in that thing..." He trailed off and I smiled.
He seemed disappointed, however, with my shoes this evening. It's not that they were bad in any way - a pretty scrunched red satin with black lace trim, 4" heel or so - but they weren't his shoes. I had considered wearing the shoes he loved so much at the last session, but I wanted to wear something new for him. I was hoping to please him but it seemed I failed. In a small moment of redemption, he did notice and appreciate the fresh black manicure on my nails. That made me smile.
I decided to sit and perched myself on the edge of the couch while we watched the concert recording for a little while longer.
He had tweeted earlier about the play room needing clean up, but that he would let his subbie clean it up. After a few minutes of the concert we headed upstairs where I started to do precisely that. He had come in before me, evidenced by the two glasses of ice water already on the dresser. I lit the candles, put away clothespins and wooden switches, and hung cuffs on the rack. I picked up a hood and moved the spanking bench closer to the corner. He came back in and began spraying down surfaces and we finished making the room ready for whatever it was he had in mind for tonight.
Once things were cleaned and put away, he went to the rack and chose a heavy, thick, black leather collar and put it around my neck. He tells me to hold my hair out of the way and I did, though I did a poor job. I hadn't quite gathered it all up, and he commented on this failure. The collar was tight, so much so that a few times I couldn't breathe as he was putting it on me and getting the straps fastened. In fact, I wasn't entirely sure if he was having trouble with the clasps or if he was just employing breath control. I think it's fair to say it was more likely the latter than the former; he knows his toys and he knows how to make me wonder, ponder, and gasp. I was gasping, it was that tight at times. "Come on," he said, not just a little darkly, "you can hold your breath for a minute. You can hold it for two minutes before you'll pass out." It seemed to take longer than it should, getting me into this collar, but who am I to question what is being done, how it is done or why it is done?
I think he is done, but he moves to the dresser and grabs something else. He turns me around and uses a padlock to secure the collar.
When the collar is fully fastened and secure, I let my arms fall to my sides. "Did I say to put your arms down?" he asks. He is perusing the racks. Shit, how fast can I piss him off tonight? I think, mocking myself. I put my hands back up in my hair. First the shoes, then the hair, then the arms. And the self-cock block and research assignment failures. I sigh, audibly, and immediately regret it.
He asks for my gag and I get it for him. He puts it in and again asks me to hold my hair out of the way. When he is done fastening the strap, I do not put my hands down but stand there, holding my hair, unmoving.
He went back to the racks and chose a pair of wrist cuffs similar to the collar and tells me to extend my arms. He put the cuffs on me. They hold my wrists in a crossed position, one on top of the other. Using large leather straps, he then immobilizes my arms at the bicep by looping the straps around my arms and behind my back. My wrists are pulled in tight against my abdomen and I cannot move my arms at all.
Helping me so I do not fall, he guides me to the massage table and has me lean forward onto the leather pillow. He pulls on the straps around my arms, he follows the line of my corset with his hands. He pushes me into and against the table with his hands, his body. He uses his hands to hit my ass, my legs and my back. He grabs the laces of my corset and pulls while he is spanking me. He flips up my skirt.
And he laughs.
I am wearing a pair of simple black cotton panties with "I (heart) Sabine" printed on them. He had asked a few weeks prior for a t-shirt with that same sentiment on it, an homage to Sabine from the Top Gear television show (UK version, of course). Instead of presenting him with a t-shirt tonight, I have worn these for him.
"Cute," he says. "Very cute."
I smile into the pillow.
He spanks me.
He starts rubbing my ass with what feels like wooden paddles, but then he flips them and I recognize them as hairbrushes. Large, flat hairbrushes that, while rubbing on the skin, feel absolutely amazing. When he hits me, however, and he does - hard - I scream through the gag and into the pillow. He continues to spank me, changing the tempo, hitting all of the skin from the top of my ass to the top of my knees. He is switching the brushes around, sometimes hitting the sides of my legs and my hips as well. At times he stays on one spot, making the skin warm and making me cringe. Then I feel him pushing me into the table and he holds the brush between my legs, sometimes rubbing, sometimes spanking my pussy.
I feel as if he is switching off between using his bare hands and the hairbrushes. Sometimes it is a stinging sensation; sharp, almost cutting, but fast to feel and fast to fade. When he is repeatedly hitting a single spot, however, or when he hits me harder, I am simultaneously on my toes and feel my legs buckling in pain. The harder, deeper hits are the ones really making me cry tonight, making me cry out, and making me want to beg for more.
It seems he is going for deep bruising tonight. Hard, heavy spanking, thudding. It feels like I am being punched - and I may be - and hit with the racquet-ball toy again. He doesn't stop. He adds a bored-hole acrylic paddle to the mix and I almost lose it when he hits me with it. My legs want to go down, I want to sink to my knees... and I want him to kick me while in that position. This thought scares me and excites me. There is something about the way I am bound, the way I am feeling, that makes me think that sinking to the ground and being kicked would be better than this. Better because I am feeling overwhelmed by the deep pain or better because I want more? Probably both; I truly have no answer even now. I am not fully aware of how or why I was thinking that, but I was. Maybe it was him telling me that he has always been so nice to me, and that I do not want to be punished by him. If I was feeling this in play, no matter how intense, punishment would no doubt break me. I could only agree with him that punishment would best be avoided (at least for me; I am sure he would enjoy it immensely).
He comes up behind me again, his hips pressed hard against my ass. He runs his hands over my corset, up to my neck and over my bare shoulders. He rubs my hips and the sides of my legs. He asks if I am comfortable. He checks my bindings and my positioning. I nod, I am comfortable. He steps away for a moment and comes back, rolling a pair of dice on the massage table in front of me. "Snake eyes," he says. He sounds disappointed. "Only two," he reiterates. He steps away again.
He tells me to spread my legs.
He grabs my pussy and spanks me, tells me to spread my legs more. He leans in and comments on the knowledge that I haven't had sex in... well, a while. "So it's been a while, huh?" I nod. "How long has it been?" I am gagged, I can't reply. I just shake my head as he uses his fingers on me, pressing his body against me. "A long while?" I nod. He speeds up, pushes against me harder. Then he moves and I feel a toy between my legs. He turns on the Hitachi and tells me to lean into it, get it where I want it. I don't have to move a lot, he's right there. I feel it building immediately and I feel my legs shaking. "Get it where you want it," he says more firmly. I can't reply, and I don't want to move. It was perfect, it was warm, the sensation was building, I was so ready for it, so needing it... and it was making me come.
"Did you come?" he asks, leaving the Hitachi in place against me, holding it tight. I nod, moaning and gasping into the pillow. He presses against me harder. "Come again. I did roll two." I feel it going again, though I am not sure I actually stopped from the first one. A rolling, electrifying sensation up and down my legs, through my hips, and culminating in a pleasurable pain, a need for release; a throbbing acme where the powerful vibrator was teasing my clit. I came and my legs went weak. Leaning against the table, my knees buckle slightly and I can feel my body shaking. I am biting the gag, feeling like I will bite through it. I want to slide to the floor, wet, weak, bound and gagged as I am, and sleep like this.
He puts the Hitachi away and comes up behind me, standing me up and running his hands over my body. He squeezes and pinches my breasts, runs his palms over the cashmere cotton of the corset, and rubs and spanks my ass. He squeezes me around the waist, holds on to me, and expresses disappointment that I am not wearing the perfume that he likes. Great, I think, another fucking fail for the evening. I ran out of my favorites and so I used unscented lotion tonight. sigh. He begins to undo the bindings on my arms and removes the leather straps. He then removes my gag.
He sits on a stool and asks to see them. I looked at him for a moment and asked, "them what?"
"What do you think?" he asks, rolling his eyes.
"Oh, my new rings!"
He just smiled. "Duh."
I reach up, wrists still cuffed, and expose my breasts and their shiny new accessories. "Nice bruise," he says, referring the green and yellow, fading reminder of Miss Apryl piercing me with a 12 gauge needle a few nights before. He hits it, flicks it. I flinch. It is still sensitive. I explained how I tried to take the needle and a flesh hook, but backed out at the last moment. She was poking through the other side but I wasn't sure I could handle it, so we removed it. In other words, I think to myself, I failed.
"Those are pretty," he says about my new silver rings. "Be sure to take good care of them." I promise I will. Then he reaches up as if to flick my nipple. At first I want to cover up. The piercings are not even 24 hours old. He stops, grinning at me, and tells me to put them away.
He stands again and moves away, telling me to stick out my tongue. He traps my tongue between a pair of chopsticks, rubber-banded together at each end. This holds my tongue out of my mouth, painfully pinched between the wooden sticks. Worse is the pain I feel when the sticks move with pressure from my mouth wanting to close. It is a sliding, increasing pressure as the chopsticks try to move closer together towards the end of my tongue.
After he binds my tongue, he has me lift my hands again, placing them behind my head. He then attaches my cuffed wrists to the bindings on the back of the collar.
He pushes me down on the table and I feel his cock hard under his jeans and tight against my ass. He is holding my hips and moving against me as if fucking me. He holds my arms and the strings of my corset, at once pushing me into the table and pulling me against him. It is intense, this simulation of sex. I am gasping into the pillow, my face and tongue in pain from the chopsticks, my clit still so sensitive from the Hitachi, and feeling both intensely sexy, turned on and, at the same time, that I am being mocked. He calls me pretty, he rams his hips against me, and I know we will not have sex. It is a dig, a reminder of how long it has been for me, and a teasing reminder that sex is not a part of our play.
He unhooks my wrists from the collar. As he moves away he says if I want to I can roll the dice. Without hesitation, I do. "She's going for it." He is behind me at the dresser. I just smile, or try with my tongue and mouth bound as they are.
I roll seven.
"Hmmm," he says, coming to look, "Seven?"
After rolling the dice I am back in position, leaning on the massage table, trying to keep my face off the pillow, drooling on it and hoping it's not too much. The chopstick-tongue-stocks are horribly tight, painful, and made more so by any attempts I make to find comfort.
He tells me to stand and remove my panties. I do as I am told. I see him at the stool, holding the Hitachi on the seat, the dildo attachment pointing up. "Have a seat," he says. I sit on it, taking it inside my wet pussy, quietly moaning as I do. He asks if I have control over it and I nod.
He turns it on.
Almost immediately, I come.
He moves to stand in front of me, his hands in my hair, at my shoulders, and on my arms. He is squeezing me, pulling my hair, holding my throat, while I ride the Hitachi. My hands are on his hips which he presses against me, burying my face in his shirt, just above his cock which, I can feel, is hard under his jeans. He grips my jaw and he tells me to come. Boon or bane, I can't seem to stop coming. I am over stimulated, oversensitive, and I cannot move. The Hitachi is amazing and tortuous at once. I have no sine-wave of orgasm and release, buildup, orgasm and release. I am in a constant, heightened, orgasm state and I can't think, I can barely breathe. His hands on me, pinching me, touching me, pulling me, pulling me to him... I am losing it, losing myself, and becoming a five-foot-nine bundle of frayed nerve-endings. I come again and again until I finally hang my head, forehead against his abdomen, and slouch. I can't take it anymore.
"Is that seven?" he asks. I nod. It's all I can do. I am weak, jelly-limbed.
He brings me some water and passes one hand over my hair and down to my shoulder. I drink. I thank him.
He tells me to stand and get in position against the wall. I do, hands above my head, ass out, legs spread. "More," he says. I spread my legs farther apart and try to hold the wall. "Not much to hold on to, is there?" he asks. I make a negative sound while shaking my head.
"I want to sit for this," he says. I can't see him, but I imagine he is on the stool again, set back, watching me. I am not sure what's coming next, but I am breathing, trying to prepare, trying to...
CRACK!
I see stars, lightning flashing behind my eyes as the first sting of the whip hits my ass. I lean into the wall, touching my forehead to the cool surface and very nearly pushing the tongue binding off in trying to close my mouth. He whips me again, twice, in quick succession, then two more spaced slightly farther apart. All of them are on the left side of my ass, all in the same place. I am leaning to one side, trying in vain to pass the pain from one side of my body to the other in an effort to find balance.
He asks me how many that was? I can't speak; I hang my head and hold five fingers up against the wall above my head.
"Do you want to touch it? Rub it?" he asks. I nod in earnest. I need to feel it, I want to connect to that spot, make it heal, if even in my mind.
"Well, you can," I hear him say.
I reach back and rub my ass. My hand is shaking and I can feel the warmth of my skin before I make the connection.
"I said you CAN'T," he clarifies.
"Yes, Deviant. I'm sorry." I am whispering.
I put my hand back on the wall and he tells me that move has earned me three more. My head falls again, and I feel the tears welling up. I have, again, failed him tonight. I don't know if he said the words or if I imagined them, but in my head I hear him reminding me again how I do not want to incur punishment from him, that I do not want to be in a position wherein I am in need of a true reminder of my failings. I keep hearing that I do not want to know what that will be like, beyond just play but earned discipline.
He teases me now, whipping close to me but not hitting me, watching me jump and squirm; I recoil at the sound. No less than five cracks are just close enough to make me cringe, cry, and wonder which one will hit me and make me fall.
He hits me twice more and I show the count on my fingers. Seven.
"Three more," he says, reminding me of the extra lashes I earned. He hits me once and my knees buckle a little. These will no doubt be precursors to any punishment. Reinforcement.
Crack!
I show the count as nine.
C-R-A-C-K!
The tenth one has me almost to my knees, the chopsticks are pushed almost all the way off, and my hands are sliding down the wall. I am this close to calling Red... but I stop. I right myself, I breathe, I cry, I breathe. I remember him telling me some weeks ago to breathe through it, use the pain to focus.
He decides that I need to be balanced out, that the other side needs some attention.
He hits me two or three times - I couldn't even count that high in the moment - on the right side before I start to crumple again. He stops and I use the wall to support me. I feel like I am falling, my head is fuzzy and I am.... at peace. It was such a difference from the non-stop-orgasm Hitachi play, and then a few moments ago when I wanted to call out and stop all of it. But I didn't and don't want to fail again. I can do this, I want to do this. And I did do this. My head is fuzzy but I feel clear, I am quieted inside even if I am crying on the outside. I feel as if I don't have to think, just be.
He comes up behind me and holds me there a moment. One hand heavy and comforting on my shoulder, he runs the other down my side and rubs my ass and my hips, asking if I am OK. I nod, I think, and he says I did a good job. He reminds me again that this was nothing, and asks me again if I understand why he keeps reminding me I do not want to be punished. I nod. He offers me water and we stand there a moment, a quiet moment. I drink the water and thank him.
He makes sure I am steady and then tells me to get the flavored condoms he requested of me. I get them from my bag and hand him a few, leaving the rest of the box on the dresser. He is going through drawers, looking for something. He shows me a large, black butt plug and I wonder if he will gag me with that as he did with my red butt plug the first night we played. He drops it into my bag, assuring me it's clean, and saying he doesn't use it.
"Thank you, Deviant." I am already smiling at the thought of using it.
He now has a large, 10-12" black rubber dildo in his hands over which he places one of the condoms. He sits on the stool and asks me to kneel in front of him. In addition to the dildo, he has a steel dental gag. He removes the chopstick gag, pressing the sticks together as he does so and making me cry out. He then places the dental gag in my mouth and uses the side lever to open it wide. "A few more clicks," he says, still adjusting it. He seems pleased. Then..."Maybe one more." He clicks it again and stops.
I am on my knees in front of him, my hands on his thighs, mouth propped open wide. He explains he is going to gag me, tease me, feed me this dildo. He says that he knows I will want to throw up, give up. I try to shake my head but he has one hand behind my head and grabs my hair; he stops me. "Yes," he says, looking me in the eye, "you will want to." He says I need to use my hands to communicate. If I remove my hands, then he knows it's too much; that will act as my soup ladle, my Red.
He says he will go slow at first, test me, but that he will fuck my mouth until I want to cry.
Until I do cry.
He slides the dildo in my mouth and over my tongue, gently bumping the head of it against the back of my throat. One hand is at the back of my neck, holding me in place. He increases the tempo and the pressure and starts to fuck my mouth, sometimes deep and hard enough to elicit the gag reflex, sometimes so close... and then he pulls back. I try to breathe in these moments - breathing through my nose be damned - but he shoves it back in harder now, deeper, and I am gagging.
"Oh yes," he is almost whispering, "I love that sound. Yes. Good."
He doesn't stop as much as he creates a rhythm that gives me a few seconds of breathing space every few moments. I am spitting up saliva, wishing I could throw up, and wondering how far this will go.
I am gagging, I am crying, I am squeezing his thighs. He uses his free hand and a small towel to clean my chin and chest where my saliva is falling. He pushes harder, then pulls back, then pushes again. He puts his forehead to mine and again expresses delight, appreciation for the noises I am making and the tears coming from my eyes. He is back to rubbing my neck, his hands partially in my hair, and he slows down but does not stop. "I told you that you would cry," he says, still speaking softly, "it's amazing, isn't it?"
He stops, removes the dildo, and allows me a moment to gather my thoughts, straighten up my position if needed, and breathe. He says he is going to go in deep this time, hold it there, really make me gag. He is going to count down and I am to take it in, deal with it, hold on to this, until he finishes. He asks me if I understand and I nod.
He wraps his fingers in my hair and shoves the dildo into my mouth. He is gagging me and not removing it, there is no rhythm. It is held, deep in my throat, hard inside me, and he is unrelenting. The pressure is intense, I am gagging around it, crying fresh tears that cut new paths down already tear-stained cheeks. It is hard to breathe, hard to take.
He counts down.
"Five."
I spit up.
"Four."
I cry silently, any noise I am making is the gagging he loves so much, precluding all other audible emotion.
"Three."
His hands tighten in my hair; he is smiling, happy in this moment, enjoying seeing and hearing me in this state, my throat wrapped around this dildo, his hands controlling how my mouth is being fucked.
"Two."
I try and breathe. Try. Try.
"One."
He holds it there for a lingering moment before removing it and bringing the hand towel to my mouth. He uses his hands to hold the towel there, covering most of my face at this point, and apply a mask-like pressure.
"Good girl," he says. "I knew you could do it." He does mock me a little, repeating my own comments about the difficulty of making a lap-band patient throw up. I just nod, still gagged with the steel dental gag. I never said we couldn't gag, I am thinking, but true vomiting is rare... at least for me. Still...
He waits a moment and then says he wants me to do it. He hands me the dildo and tells me to gag myself. He asks me if I think I can do it and I shrug. I had no idea. I wanted to because he asked me to. I wanted to because regardless of the gagging and the difficulty breathing and the tears, I was enjoying this, pushing comfortable limits, pushing myself. Masochism aside - though not totally, of course - I was enjoying the accomplishment and his reactions.
I start slowly, hesitantly. I slide it in, over my tongue, already sensitive due to his rougher mouth-fucking. But my eyes are on his, and I want to do this. I push in deeper, feeling it slide back, and trying not to gag. He is smiling, his eyes urging me to go further, deeper, harder. I feel emboldened by this and shove the dildo in as far as I can; I gag, I spit up, and I continue. I keep going, gagging myself, fucking my mouth with this huge black dildo. One of his hands is at the curve of my shoulder and throat, the other at my other shoulder. He calls me a good girl and once again expresses appreciation for the noise, the helplessness of this position, and the tears. I keep trying, I keep going. I press in further than I thought I would on my own, pushing that limit, pushing it out of the way and moving past it.
I feel like I will, in fact, vomit.
I stop.
"Good girl."
"Thank you," I gasp, barely a sound.
He takes the dildo from me and sets it aside, then proceeds to remove the dental gag. My appearance was, I could only imagine, sad and broken. My hair was a mess, tears stains tracked down my cheeks, and I could feel irritation from the various gags.
He noticed. "You always come over here looking so pretty, and you leave a hot mess."
I wasn't sure how that made me feel...
"I like it," he added.
I managed a smile.
He brought me some water and I sat on my knees a few more moments. He then had me stand, he handed me the dildo again, wet with my saliva, and told me to fuck it on the stool.
I positioned it and straddled it, taking it inside my pussy. If I thought it was wet earlier for the Hitachi, this was beyond the definition of wet. It slid in easily, if slowly. It was so long, I was afraid of going too fast. Slowly I sat down on it until I had it all the way.
"Oh my God," he said with... was it excitement? Incredulity? Disgust? "Did you take that *whole" thing in?" he asked.
"Yes, Sir," I gasped, nodding. It wasn't painful, but.... "...pressure," was all I could say.
"You whore!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, Deviant."
It definitely was not disgust; that was appreciation. He smiled. "You fucking whore," he said, grinning widely. I smiled.
He began hitting me. A flogger, I think, whipping my ass as he commanded me to ride the dildo until I came. "You may use your hands, do anything you like, but do not stop." I wanted to use my hands. I wanted to rub my clit and squeeze my breasts and pinch my freshly-pierced nipples. I wanted to stick a finger in my ass while I rode this simulated cock. "Use your hands, you are allowed."
But I was so beat down tonight - in the best way imaginable - that I had to use my hands to hold on to the stool, keep my balance, and keep from falling off while I fucked myself and he beat me.
"You can..."
I interrupted him, "I am holding on... I can't use... I am...." I trailed off.
"Are you coming?" he asks. "Again?"
I nod, I gasp, I come.
He keeps hitting me, sharp stings that make me jump, make me cry out, and all the while making me ride the dildo harder which, in turn, also makes me jump. He continues for a few more minutes, hitting me, whipping me, beating me while I fuck the dildo, riding the stool, and coming again and again.
He stops hitting me and tells me I can stop. I want to pass out. I have no idea how I am upright at this point, but I am holding on to the stool with all my might. I am still sitting on the dildo; I can't move.
He helps me stand and we set the toy aside. He gives me some water.
"Have a seat," he motions to the stool. "And give me your tits."
I pull my top and my strapless bra down over my corset as much as it allows, exposing my breasts for him.
He considers my new silver rings again and I notice he has clothespins in his hands. He begins attaching them - seven of them, of course - in what looks like a ring around my breasts. They are stacked two and three at a time in some places, from the nipple outward. He flicks them, pulls on them, pulls them off and reattaches them. Each time I am gasping, sucking in air between clenched teeth, and trying not to cry out.
He moves a way for a moment and returns with rubber bands, wrapping one at a time around my breasts, creating even more pressure. From their own presence, tightly pinching around the entire breast, the bands make the skin more taught and I feel the clothespins even more as the wooden clamps try to keep their grip on my flesh. He tries to put on multiple bands at one time but the extra pressure from multiple bands doesn't make it easy to get the grip or setting that he wants. He adds one or two more, one at a time, until he is happy with what he sees. He again flicks, pulls, and in some spots, hits my breasts. I am cringing, biting my lip, and gripping my hands on the seat of the stool.
"Turn your head," he says as he steps away from me. "Now."
I turn away from him, my body straight, my head looking at the opposite wall from where he is standing. He begins shooting rubber bands at me from across the room, hitting my sensitive breasts and the clothespins biting into them.
Oh.
My.
Gods...
He hits me three times and I can't take it anymore. Thankfully, I don't have to.
"Not bad," he says, coming back over to me. "Two for three?" he asks.
"Three for three, Deviant." I answer. He hit me every damn time.
He removes the clothespins by pulling at them roughly, the blood rushing back to the pinched skin making me gasp in pain. He cuts the rubber bands away and the rush of sensation is ten times that of the clothespins. I almost yell when I feel it and I am thankful I am sitting.
I am gasping, panting, feeling beat down and worn out. We've been playing for, what, I wonder, two? three hours?
"We'll just play for an hour tonight," he says, as if reading my mind (he seems to be able to do that, often, but I digress).
"An hour?" I am in shock. How could I feel so beat down, so good, and so used and worn out like this... in an hour?
He smiled. "Yeah, I figure that's good for now."
I got dressed and he left me to clean up the playroom. I cleaned and put away toys, sprayed and cleaned the furniture, and removed the towels and such to the laundry. When he came back I went over all I did to make sure I didn't miss anything, and we grabbed the rest of what we needed to take downstairs.
Before we left the room, I reached into my bag. I reminded him of the t-shirt request of a few weeks ago and explained I couldn't possibly have done the panties without being able to provide him with his shirt. I handed the shirt to him and explained that it was unique. I couldn't find the t-shirts online... so I had our garments made. He was the only person with that shirt. It was his and his alone.
He was pleased, grateful. I was happy.
"Oh, shit," he laughs, looking at me with his head tilted to one side. "We'll need to take that collar off of you." I, too, had forgotten it. He gets the keys to the lock off the dresser.
And it doesn't work. "Shit."
"Um...." is all I can muster.
"Hold on, there are two keys." The second one works.
He removes the collar and rubs my neck before going to hang it up.
We grab our things, go downstairs, and enjoy more of the music.
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