…And nothing hurt: Masochist Musings
Bruising like this leaves me tender and vulnerable for weeks afterwards, it affects my day-to-day and is a constant reminder that I am someone who wants this to happen to me, who lets someone harm me beyond the level where it can be brushed off, moved past.
I’m chained and kneeling in the corner of the room when the doorbell goes. He put me there – naked but for the collar around my neck, chain lead attached to the wardrobe to keep me in place. I’m on my knees, legs a little splayed, bright red cane marks striping my thighs from earlier when I voiced my disagreement about this proposed treatment.
He often mocks me like this, pretending ignorance of the hurt he’s caused, treating me as if I’m stupid and peculiar for reacting. It upsets and arouses me in equal measures.
I never feel more like a doll than when I’m with him. He likes to dress me up, pose me, restrain me in elaborate ways so I can barely react or move when he fucks me.
As I write this I am sticky and satisfied, flushed and slightly breathless, coasting on that delicious loose-limbed whole body high that is the result of a really good orgasm.
He has never hit me in the stomach before and whilst the blow is not hard it is shocking, as is the change in him as he hits me. I feel rather than hear myself gasping and I am scuttling backwards on the bed like a spider, like a man falling, but there’s nowhere to go and I end up in a corner with him almost on top of me, crouched over me with a raised fist.
I adore canes. When me and Kristan do impact play it nearly always includes canes, and it’s also one of the things I fantasise about a lot. I love the immediacy of the biting sting that is impossible to block out, I love the noise it makes both whipping through the air and on impact, and I especially love the marks it leaves me with.
I find Kristan, and we leave to go to another party. When we get there we lightly mingle. We do illicit things. He fucks me in a sex swing in almost pitch blackness. Pulls my bodysuit aside and rips a hole in my tights to get to me.
This week’s #sinfulsunday features my arse, the day after being severely and professionally caned by a pro-domme friend of mine. […]
He asks if I am sore, leaning over me with one hand on my back to keep me down, pressing himself up against the entrance of my cunt. We are both breathing heavily, muscles slightly tensed in that taut, tight way that happens just before fucking. He tells me – matter-of-factly – that he doesn’t actually care if I am am sore as he pushes inside me.