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.

The Sign of a Good Beating...

So, after He read my last post, Master turned to me and said, "What is your preference for getting beaten today?  Not that you really have a preference, but if you did, what would it be?"

"The belt," I replied, without any hesitation.

I like the belt, His belt.  It's brown leather, worn-in just enough, and it's His.  That's a big part of it for me, that something He wears all the time, out in public, is used to bring me pain.  I like that, in a perverse sort of way.

He must like the belt, too, because that's what He used to beat me, true to His word.  He tied me to the bed, and then He applied the belt to my behind until it felt like it was on fire. No other implement does that, creates that sense of heat on my skin.

It was good.  The pain, the heat, it was all good, really, really good.  And even now, two days later, I can still feel it when I sit down.

That's the sign of a good beating.  And one more reason why I love the belt.

"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.

Tracks of My Tears

This morning the stars and planets aligned, and  He and I found ourselves home alone.  It was unplanned and unexpected, and we decided to make the most of it.  Up early, I showered, shaved, and made myself pretty.  Once I was ready, we met in the bedroom.

No rope or restraints were used.  He bent me over the bed and exposed my bare ass.  While I waited, He reached for His belt.  Without ceremony, the beating commenced.  I did my best to maintain position, but the occasional extra-sharp whack of the belt caused me to raise up off the bed.  His hand in the middle of my back pushed me back down.

After a few minutes of this, He kicked my legs apart.  He reached in between my legs to see if I was wet, and I was.  With one quick thrust, He entered me and fucked me.  But just a little; there was more beating to be had.  And on it went--beating and fucking, beating and fucking, until....

Until the final round of beating, harder, faster, more intense than before, His hand on my back pushing me into the mattress, this round of beating gave Him want he wanted:  my tears.  He beat me until I cried.  As I sobbed, still bent over the end of the bed, nose running, tears flowing, He fucked me some more.   His delight in my tears was very apparent in the urgency of His thrusts. 

He stopped after a few minutes, ordered me onto the bed, and I was rewarded with an orgasm, His mouth on me, sending me over the edge.  I returned the favor, and He came hard and deep down my throat.

I should add that I enjoy my tears, too.  I like it when He makes me cry.  It isn't easy to do; as much as I like it, as much as I know He wants it, I tend to fight it.  I hold back the tears for as long as I can.  So when He takes me to that point of no return,  it's a rush, a relief, and His excitement is a turn-on for me.

Anyway, it was bliss, all of it.  I needed it.  He needed it.  And my ass still hurts, which makes it all the sweeter.