A Progressive Master...

Alright, as promised, a real blog post, about real things.  Where to begin...

Last time I shared with you, He'd beaten my ass with His belt.  He's beaten my butt a few more times since then, once with the cane and the leather strap, then again with the belt.  The second beating with the belt was harsher than the first; He left very definite marks, a huge bruise, and, for the very first time ever, He made me cry with the belt. Overall, it was a very satisfying experience for both of us.

Yesterday He suggested we play a game.  When I asked what kind of game, He replied, "Slap the Pussy."  I told Him that I didn't think that matched my definition of what constitutes a 'game,' and He laughed at me.  Apparently it matched His definition, and that's all that matters around here.

So, He played "Slap the Pussy" until the pussy was practically on fire.  Of course, He took great joy in pointing out how wet the pussy was, which, according to Him, proves that the pussy likes to be slapped.  (The truth is that is really does like to be slapped, but I don't want to tell Him that.)

He's not without heart, however.  After hurting the pussy, He kissed it and made it feel better.  Much, much better.  As I lay on the bed in post pain/orgasm bliss, He talked about how much He likes to satisfy me.  He said He imagines there are some M-types out there who might not care whether or not their s-type has an orgasm, but it's important to Him.

I told Him it's a good thing (because I'm an s-type who loves her some orgasms).  Then He pronounced, "Yes, I think I am a Progressive Master."  Then I started to laugh...what a novel concept.  Fortunately He laughed too, so I didn't get myself into any trouble there.

And, that's about it.  You are now all up-to-date on what we've been up to for the past few weeks. Let's hope my muse sticks around this month.  The old blog gets a little dusty when she leaves town for so long.

A Lesson About Warm-Ups...

Yesterday Master gave me a beating.  And believe it or not, He started with a warm-up.  It's true.  Oh, He will still be known as 'The Man Who Does Not Believe In Warm-Ups,' but yesterday, He started out nice and slow, no zero-to-100.

Of course, this was problematic.

Why?  Well, when He starts slow and gradually builds up the pain levels, I am able to tolerate more pain.  When He goes super fast, I am left moving and squirming and yelping and ready to stop as soon as He starts.

Not so yesterday.  That nice, slow build-up, punctuated by lovely breaks in which He would shove His cock in my pussy and fuck me hard, meant my ass was ready to take whatever He was giving.  He used Mr. Blister (the leather strap) and Mr. Cane (whom I hate), and I soaked up the pain like a sponge.

It was all good until He grabbed my hair, pulled my head back, and said, "Do you think I will stop before you cry?"

It took me a few seconds to respond.  And in those few seconds, a million thoughts flew through my endorphin-addled brain. 

"Tears?  He wants tears?  I'm not even close to crying...this could go on a long time...this could be bad...."

While my mind whirred, I managed to whisper, "I don't know."

His response?  "No, I won't."

He went back to work with the cane.  I went into a small state of panic.  He wanted my tears, and I really didn't think I had any to give Him.

However, He always gets what He wants.  And, giving up my tears really isn't up to me.  He knows what to do to make me cry.  He knows how much I hate when He hits my ass with Mr. Cane in a rapid-fire way.  So He used the cane and the leather strap, hitting me hard and fast, and it didn't take long before I was crying.

Big sobs, tears running down my face.

He likes to fuck me while I cry, which is just what He did, one hand wrapped around my hair, pulling my head back, while He thrust His cock into my pussy.

So what is the lesson to be learned from this?  That warm-ups, while normally beneficial, are decidedly detrimental when the Sadist wants His masochist to cry. 

"I don't want to hear any of your shit..."

That's what He told me Wednesday, after He fastened the ball gag in place.   He'd tightened the strap, so the little black silicon ball sat snug in my mouth.  I couldn't even mutter a muffled response.

"And none of your crap about 'Warm-ups,' either," He added.

At this point, seeing as I was bent over the end of the bed, hands bound with purple rope and tied to the headboard, ass exposed and mouth gagged, I sensed I might be in a bit of trouble.  Clearly, my past admonitions regarding the importance of warm-ups had come back to bite me in the ass, so to speak.

Naturally, this time there were no warm-ups.  He started at His speed, which is zero-to-100 in five seconds or so.  He used multiple instruments of pain:  His hand, the black paddle, Mr. Blister (a cross between a leather strap and a paddle), the long-handled plastic shoe horn, and of course, the cane.

He used them all, one right after the other, and quickly set my ass on fire.

Then He stopped and put His hand between my legs---the moment of truth, the moment of exposure.  The moment when He discovers just how aroused I am (I always wonder what He thinks at that moment.  Perhaps it's better I don't know).  A small wave of shame washed over me, as it always does.  It passed quickly.  Shame was rapidly replaced by greed...greed for His touch, His cock, more pain, just more of everything, please.

Did He somehow sense my greed, my need for more?  I don't think so, but He certainly was generous.  He beat my ass some more, then He fucked me, hard,  and He took pleasure as He pressed His flesh against my stinging ass cheeks.  His moans and groans told me how pleased He was.

At one point, He mentioned how mean it would be if He came, right then, and just left me there.  Unable to articulately respond, thanks to the ball gag, I instead grunted my displeasure at that idea, and He laughed at me.

And He didn't cum.  Instead, He forced my legs farther apart and held them open with one of His legs.  He took aim on my poor, exposed pussy with the long-handled shoe horn.  It only took a few blows to set my pussy on fire.  This was followed by more fucking, and His arousal at my discomfort fueled my arousal, an on and on it went...beating and fucking and beating and fucking, until the beating stopped.

He untied me, removed the ball gag, ordered me to look at my bright red ass in the mirror, then told me to get up onto the bed.  Like a good girl, I followed His orders and received my reward; He used His mouth on me until I came.  Then He fucked me hard and deep, until He came.

Afterwards, He asked me if I was O.K.  Yes, I replied, I was O.K.  I also felt high, loaded up on endorphins and all those other feel-good things that result from a really intense sexual connection with Him. It all felt so good...so addictive.  Is it possible I am addicted to Him?

We will have some time alone this afternoon.  Perhaps I can entice Him to play rough with me again today, and I can get another fix.

Knotty, knotty...

Time by ourselves this afternoon led to this:

Those are my ankles/legs, bound my some more of Master's handi-work with the pretty purple rope.  My hands were also bound with purple rope and tied to the bed.

After He finished photographing His knots, Master gave me a beating.  He used His hand, the shoe horn, Mr. Blister, and finally, Mr. Cane.

As usual, Mr. Cane made me cry.  He's mean, Mr. Cane...so mean.

But I find it very exciting, having my legs bound like that while He hurts me.  The immobility adds to the sense of helplessness and being at His mercy.  And, having my legs pressed together causes a rather intense physical sensation...very stimulating.

The only drawback to this type of bondage, is that He can't fuck me.  And He likes to fuck me while He beats me...so He removed the rope from around my legs about halfway through in order to have access, so to speak.

To sum things up, I was bound, beaten, fucked, and in the end, rewarded with a huge orgasm. 

Time by ourselves is a good thing, indeed.

He's a Man of His Word, Alright

He was right, as usual.  He surely did fuck me when He got home yesterday.

But before He fucked me, He beat me until I cried.  No ropes to secure me in place, no warm-up, just 0-60 on my ass.  His chosen speed for the day.

Oh I protested and jumped around, not so gently reminded Him that a warm-up would be nice, told Him that I thought I heard the long-handled shoe horn crack and He should stop using it (it hadn't and He didn't), asked where the flogger was (nowhere to be found, apparently, because He never used it), told Him He was breaking several BDSM rules** when He beat my ass with the long-handled shoe horn AND the cane at the same time (that hurt, yeah), and loudly noted each time the cane wrapped around my hips.

I'm really not sure why He doesn't gag me sometimes.

Probably because when He takes a break during the beating, He likes to come around and stick His hard dick in my mouth.  That does tend to quiet me a bit.

However, He ignored my horrific behavior (I admit, it was less-than-stellar), planted His left hand FIRMLY on my back, and beat me with Mr. Cane.  And Mr. Blister.  Then back to Mr. Cane.  Eventually, I kept still and quiet, and after a long while, I cried.

Then He fucked me.  Just like He said He would.

I just love a man who keeps His word.


**There are no BDSM rules, and for some reason, He never falls for this ruse.   In fact, every time I mention the rules of BDSM , He laughs.  Go figure.

Saturday Morning Update

He read the post I wrote yesterday.  He read it late in the evening, with little comment other than to point out that it was the last day of my period, so we really could not have done much kinky-sexy-type stuff anyway.  This was true, so I agreed with Him.  We spent the rest of the evening watching fighting shows, then went to bed.

Around 7am or so, He got up.  I did not.  He dressed and went to the kitchen and made coffee.  He closed the bedroom door behind Him, so I took that as a sign I could snuggle back into the bed and grab some more sleep.

Hah!

He came back, I think around 8:15.  I was in fact snuggled into the bed, curled up with His body pillow, and I'd dozed off while He'd been gone.  The crack of His hand on my bare ass woke me up right quick, however.  And He kept going.  He gave me the longest hand-spanking ever, and He managed to pinch my nipple while spanking my ass.  (Multi-tasking for the win!)

Eventually, He let me up so I could go pee, but when I came back He was ready for more.  He bent me over the end of the bed and went back to work on my backside with Mr. Blister and Mr. Cane.

It.  Hurt.

Finally, it hurt enough that I cried.  My tears ended the beating, and they earned me an orgasm.  Such are the benefits of sobbing when shut in a room with a Sadist wielding a cane and a paddle.  Oh and no worries, He had an orgasm, too. 

At this point, in the interest of fairness, I will add that when it was over, He commented on how much it took to make me cry.  He said He kept doing things He thought would bring out the tears, but I just kept on taking it.

And He found that exciting.  It excited Him that He had to hit my ass longer and harder.  Imagine that.  Sadists...

So now let's update tranquility's list of demands suggestions for the weekend:

• A beating.  A good, long ass- beating, the kind that takes my breath away and leaves me all snotty and sobbing.

• A spanking.  On my pussy.  Last time He did that, He briefly (too briefly) parted my labia and got me right on the clit.  I thought I'd died and gone to heaven.

•  A fucking.  Preferably while bound in some way.

•  A facial.  He's mentioned wanting to cum on my face while I'm crying.  Maybe we can do that this weekend.

• An orgasm.  Maybe two.  Three?  I've been a good girl this past week, really I have.

Sweet!  The day isn't even half over and look how much has been accomplished. 

Forgive me Master, for I have sinned...

Last night He told me I was "Topping from the Bottom."

Who, me?  Would I dare to commit the cardinal sin of slavitude?  (That's not a word--I just made it up.  Feel free to use it if you like it.)

The answer is yes, yes I would.

He told me I was TFTB (I just made up that acronym, too--again, feel free to use any time) in the middle a beating.  To be honest, the beating was not going well.  This was not due to any fault of His.  His application of pain was spot on, so no problem there.

The problem was me.  My mind wasn't where it should be.  I didn't like how I was tied up, and that's all I could think about.  Yes, I know, I can hear you saying it:  "Don't like how you are tied up?  Too bad, suck it up, buttercup."  I tried to suck it up, I did, but I failed.  Epically.  All I could do was obsess on how I was tied up.

So, in the middle of the beating, He brought out Mr. Cane.  Unfortunately, I was in no mood for an encounter with Mr. Cane.  And I told Him so.  I believe I said something like, "Not the cane. Isn't it broken by now?  Where's Mr. Blister?"  (Mr. Blister, for those who don't know, is a leather paddle.)

Not very slavey (hey, another new word--I'm on a roll this morning!) of me, and I am surprised He didn't just end the beating right then and there.  But no...He obliged me.  He put Mr. Cane away, and He grabbed Mr. Blister.

Ominously,  He said, "Look at you, topping from the bottom."  Then He and Mr. Blister proceeded to show me the error of my ways.  For the record, Mr. Blister hurt just as much as Mr. Cane.  I have the marks on my ass to prove it.

                                                                              *****

When it was over, we talked about what went wrong.  I apologized and tried to explain where I was at during the beating, and why I derailed.  He reassured me that everything was OK.  He said, "We are good 99.99% of the time.  It's natural that every once in a while, things wont quite work out the way we want."

I love how understanding He is.  But, I wouldn't be surprised if He puts a gag in my mouth the next time He decides to beat me.  That would be one way to prevent the dreaded TFTB.

Last Friday Night...

Better late than never...here is the post about last Friday's beating.

Master started with rope, around my upper arms, tying me up in a new way, an unfamiliar way.  It frightened me.  I tried to stay calm, but when He bent me over the end of the bed, the rope bit into my skin.  I panicked.  I told Him it hurt.  I told Him it wasn't going to work.

He brought me upright and untied my arms.  He moved the rope to my wrists, tying them together.  Then He bent me over the end of the bed, and attached the long end of the rope to the headboard.  I wasn't going anywhere, and best of all, I was no longer in a panic.

Once He had me where He wanted me, He said, "Warm-ups or no warm-ups?"  Then He laughed.  Yeah, that was really funny.  (It was, actually). 

Then He warmed me up; no 0-100 this time.  He took it slowly, switching between the floggers and Mr. Blister and His hand.  Occasionally He would stop and fuck me.

About half way through, He took my left leg and moved it up onto the bed so that the left bed post held it in place.  This left me in a most-exposed position, and He took advantage of it to use the flogger on my pussy.

Finally, Mr. Cane made an appearance.  How I hate Mr. Cane; he only wants one thing, Mr. Cane.  He wants my tears.  I fought it, I really did, but as always, Mr. Cane won the battle.  His rapid-fire 'whack-whack-whack' all over already tenderized skin did me in, and I sobbed until He stopped.

He untied me at this point, directed me up onto the bed, and then there were orgasms for everyone.  That always makes the tears worthwhile.

"Warm-ups? We don't need no stinking warm-ups..."

It's Monday morning, early.  The house is quiet, just me, the two cats, and a nice hot cup of coffee.  Quiet time for me to reflect on the first of our three weekends alone...

The beating came Saturday afternoon.  To begin, He unlocked the suitcase that houses our toys, then selected which instruments of pain He wanted to use. 

He picked just about every single one.  I think only the poor Wartenburg Wheel got left behind.

Next He bent me over the end of the bed and went about His business.  No ropes to hold me in place, just me, expected to hold position, His hand at the ready to push me back down if I didn't.

Now, keep in mind that several days prior to this, we had a discussion.  This discussion centered around how long it had been since my last beating, how important a "warm-up" would be, etc.  Those are the things I said to Him.  Clearly, this is what He heard:  blah blah blah "warm-up" blah blah blah, etc.

Because there was no "warm-up."  This should not have surprised me---there is almost never a "warm-up."  There is just "His" speed, and my ass has to work to catch up to it.

So, He worked over my backside pretty good.  He used His hand, the suede flogger, the leather flogger, Mr. Cane, Mr. Blister, His belt, and the long-handled plastic shoe horn that bites.  He also raked His nails down my back, and He whipped my pussy with the tips of the flogger.

When He finished, my ass was bright red.  Glowing.  And sore.  Sadly, there was no bruising, no marks save for the two outlines of the tip of the cane where He wrapped it around the side of my hip. If you ask He will tell you He only wrapped the tip once.  If you ask me, I will show you the TWO marks and rest my case.

Tip-wrapping aside, it was a good beating.  It was followed by good sex.  And my ass is still sore.

Can't wait until next weekend to do it again.

I've fallen...

Snippet of conversation that took place after a session yesterday, in which He liberally applied Mr. Blister and Mr. Cane to my backside and made me cry:

Me:  "My butt hurts" (said with puppy eyes and a slight whine, in hope of some sympathy)

Him:  "You must have fallen down." (said with total seriousness)

Me:  "Fallen down??!?  I must have fallen down over and over and over and over and over then."  (said with mock-astonishment)

Him:  "Yes.  And you must have fallen on something hard, since your butt hurts."  (Again, said with total seriousness)

Me:  consumed with laughter

*****
Seriously thought, it was a really good beating.  He slowly ratcheted up the pain until the tears flowed, and it was wonderful.  He also applied the new tiny vice-grips to my pussy, which was new, and He introduced another new toy, which isn't really a toy.

BUT it is evil and ouchie and in the interest of safety/BDSM rules (there are rules to all of this, right?) and all that, it should never be used again.  That evil new toy is a long handled shoe horn, made of very hard plastic that bites and stings, and He likes it because, "I can be really accurate with it."

Accuracy.  I am now wondering if He will draw little bulls-eye targets on my ass next time to test His "accuracy."

Probably shouldn't have written that last bit.  Better quit while I'm ahead, and stop now.

Sore boobs--not what you think

My boobs hurt, and not in a good way.  Seems the older I get, the worse PMS gets...and this is PMS week, so my boobs are tender and sensitive and not my friends.  This is how bad it is:  last night, when we were in bed and He reached out to tweak a nipple, I begged Him, "please, not the boobs."

Shocking, I know, since that's an activity we both enjoy.  But they ache so bad, and the thought of more pain on top of that was too much.  Being a kind Master, He moved His hand away and let me sleep.

So who knows what today will bring.  Last night we received a phone call from our college student, who informed us that they will return home next Tuesday.  This means our alone time is drawing to a close...and it also means we should make the most of the time we have left.  Perhaps today would be a good time for another session with Mr. Blister. 

Master reads here, so maybe He will pick up on the hint.

Merry Christmas, Master!

This is what we bought in the Big City.  The impact toy is a leather strap (I included the measuring tape to give it scale.)  Below the strap is a set of nipple clamps. (Click on the photo for a larger view)

Master couldn't wait to try them out, and He wasn't disappointed.  The nipple clamps might look like toys, which was Master's impression, but they HURT.  Little tiny vice grips grabbing onto tender nipples HURT, don't let anyone tell you any different.

As for the strap, well no surprise here, it HURT too.  A LOT.  Especially when someone beats you with it really fast--whack-whack-whack-whack-whack.  It left my butt really red, and it left a few marks and welts.  Master said my butt was 'blushing', which just sounds so sweet...but 'being on fire' and 'blushing' are NOT the same thing.

Master named the new toy "Mr. Blister."  I hate Mr. Blister already.

But Master loves His new implements of pain, which is what's most important.  These are His Christmas presents, after all.