Yesterday morning, right after we woke up, Master told me about a dream He had. In the dream, He and I were in a bar or restaurant, and He wanted me to leave with Him to go have sex. I 'playfully' refused His request, in this dream, and this really excited Him, both in the dream and in real life, as He woke up in a state of arousal.
A little while later, after a few cups of coffee, He 'playfully' pushed me up against a wall in the kitchen, and scolded me for teasing Him in His dream. "You might need a beating later on," He told me.
I didn't think that was fair, as I wasn't actually in His dream, and I started to say as much, but I shushed up when His fingers started to crush my nipples. Besides, I'm not one to turn down a beating, am I?
The beating came much later in the day, after an afternoon of running errands. He wasn't nice about it. There was no ceremony, no ropes or restraints, no warm-up (grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr), just me bent over the end of the bed, while He went straight to the cane.
How cruel is that? Seriously. It. Hurt. And not in a good way.
And believe it or not, it got worse. He pulled out the long handled shoe horn (which is not an approved* sex toy, btw), and used it on the sweet spot, and on the backs of my thighs. Why? Because He thought the marks it left looked "pretty."
Of course, in between creating welts with the cane and "pretty" marks with the shoe horn, He took the time to fuck me and grind against my stinging skin. With each thrust I would cry out in pain, and He would moan in pleasure.
He's such a Sadist.
He continued this pattern, beating then fucking me, until I cried. Once He had my tears, He told me to get up on the bed, and then He kissed everything and made it all better.
When it was all over, He really wanted me to see how the "pretty" mark from the shoe horn looked, so he whacked me on the top of my right thigh so I could easily see. So kind, yep, that Master of mine is so thoughtful.
Sadly, I didn't really share in His appreciation of the "pretty" mark. To me, it's an "OMG THAT F*ING HURTS!" mark, and I think it would be a real shame if the long handled shoe horn suddenly, and without warning, disappeared.
However, the saddest part of all is that after all that pain, there are no marks on my backside today. Not a one. There should at least be one bruise, or one left over welt, but nope, nada. And I know when Master reads this, He will tell me, "Well, that just means I'll have to try harder."
Sadists...
*The long handled shoe horn is not approved for use as a sex-toy/implement of pain by the Official BDSM Committee Who Wrote the Rules of Proper BDSM Stuff, which I swear is all real, but Master insists is fake.
Showing posts with label cane. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cane. Show all posts
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Thursday, December 6, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Mr. Cane goes 'Swish'
Four years ago we purchased our first, and so far only, cane. We purchased it on our first trip to the BDSM store in the Big City. They had a huge assortment, and He told me to pick the one we wanted. So kind of Him to let me select the instrument of my doom. I stood in front of the display, outwardly calm, inwardly frantic. So many to choose from....I didn't want one that was too thin, because that would feel too whippy. I didn't want one that was really thick, because that would be too ouchie. I didn't want one that was too long or too short...finally, I picked one that was in-between, not too thick, not too thin and just the right length. The friendly store clerk offered to let Him test it out on me to make sure it was "the one." Ever the gentleman in public, and aware of the mortified look on my face, He declined her offer.
With the cane, a pair of clover clamps and a Whitehead gag purchased, we returned home. The Whitehead gag saw first use. Mr. Cane, as I have not-so-affectionately come to call him, had to wait; the Whitehead gag had to be tested out first.
The next morning we lazed about it bed. We fooled around a bit, chatted, prepared to get up and have coffee. He got up first, I remained in the covers. He came around to my side of the bed, Mr. Cane in hand. He told me to roll onto my stomach, and He tried out a few test-whacks with the cane. Nothing terrible--a little stingy--but He wasn't using much force.
Lulled into a false sense of security, I was totally unprepared for what happened next. The test whacks stopped. And suddenly, He swung the cane HARD. VERY, VERY HARD. It hit my ass with a loud crack, and it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Immediately I rolled over onto my back, positive He'd split my ass cheek open.
I looked up at Him and said, "What the fuck?!?!?" He looked down at me, and was clearly as surprised as I was. "Oh My God, that HURT!!!" I told Him, now grabbing at my ass to make sure it wasn't going to fall off.
"Well," He said, looking down at me with a smile, "I wanted to hear it go 'swish' through the air."
*blink-blink*
"You what?" I said.
"I wanted to hear it go 'swish', "He replied again.
Eventually I recovered from the shock of the moment, and the shock of "I wanted to hear it go 'swish'." He had me roll over so He could inspect His handywork. My ass was not cracked or broken or bleeding or about to fall off, but I did carry around a very large and lovely welt for several days after that incident.
As I said at the beginning, we still have Mr. Cane, and he has seen a lot of use. No instument of pain brings me to tears the way Mr. Cane does. He no longer goes 'swish', however. That, thank goodness, was a one-time event.
With the cane, a pair of clover clamps and a Whitehead gag purchased, we returned home. The Whitehead gag saw first use. Mr. Cane, as I have not-so-affectionately come to call him, had to wait; the Whitehead gag had to be tested out first.
The next morning we lazed about it bed. We fooled around a bit, chatted, prepared to get up and have coffee. He got up first, I remained in the covers. He came around to my side of the bed, Mr. Cane in hand. He told me to roll onto my stomach, and He tried out a few test-whacks with the cane. Nothing terrible--a little stingy--but He wasn't using much force.
Lulled into a false sense of security, I was totally unprepared for what happened next. The test whacks stopped. And suddenly, He swung the cane HARD. VERY, VERY HARD. It hit my ass with a loud crack, and it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Immediately I rolled over onto my back, positive He'd split my ass cheek open.
I looked up at Him and said, "What the fuck?!?!?" He looked down at me, and was clearly as surprised as I was. "Oh My God, that HURT!!!" I told Him, now grabbing at my ass to make sure it wasn't going to fall off.
"Well," He said, looking down at me with a smile, "I wanted to hear it go 'swish' through the air."
*blink-blink*
"You what?" I said.
"I wanted to hear it go 'swish', "He replied again.
Eventually I recovered from the shock of the moment, and the shock of "I wanted to hear it go 'swish'." He had me roll over so He could inspect His handywork. My ass was not cracked or broken or bleeding or about to fall off, but I did carry around a very large and lovely welt for several days after that incident.
As I said at the beginning, we still have Mr. Cane, and he has seen a lot of use. No instument of pain brings me to tears the way Mr. Cane does. He no longer goes 'swish', however. That, thank goodness, was a one-time event.
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