Tag: D/s

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Afterburn

Through dumb luck we found ourselves kidless at home this evening. A rare occurrence. I, of course, was hoping we’d squeeze a little action in and I was not disappointed. In fact, it’s entirely possible I’m writing this in the gap in the action. The first act, in which Thumper got his ass thoroughly whipped, is over. Act two, if it happens, would be all about Mistress Belle Fille.

It started out with us watching an episode of Mad Men downstairs while she worked out on the ellipse (yes, that’s the big evening without kids – catching up on our stories like a couple of old ladies). The intention was to continue watching more episodes upstairs after her shower, but somehow it never happened and before you know it I was all naked and subby on the bed next to her.

“Get the flogger.”

Gasp! She’s gonna beat me! Sweet!

I got the little rubber flogger and handed it to her and naturally assumed a very submissive posture. Ass in the air, head down on the sheets, she said, “Stay just like that. I’ll be back…”

I stayed as directed. My knees were apart, so my ass was spread with the sack hanging freely from between. I enjoyed being in the classic position of one dominated, enjoyed that I was like that at her command, enjoyed the feeling of the breeze blowing through the window moving around her cock and balls. I felt very calm and at peace.

She reentered the room and sat down on the bed behind me. I had no idea what she left the room for as I assumed I was about to be hit with the flogger and couldn’t imagine what she needed from elsewhere. Then, I felt a cold cream being applied to my scrotum. And then I smelled it. Icy Hot. Lots of it.

Jesus. H. Christ.

I whimpered in anticipation of the pain about to come. It always goes on cool and soothing. Then the fire starts. And this time, she followed the package directions and “applied liberally”, so the fire started hot and just got hotter. While I was writhing on the bed, nuclear fusion taking place between my legs, she started to flog my upraised ass.

Truth is, the Icy Hot hurt so bad, the flogging was almost incidental. Waves of burning heat crashed into my scrotum, receded slightly, only to crest higher the next time. Sweat broke out all over my body. I bit hard into the blanket. Realizing we were alone, I got vocal. I screamed. My eyes watered. It hurt so bad. And all the while, she was flogging my ass.

Eventually, the Icy Hot started to wane. She got up again and came back in with a wet washcloth. I think (it’s hard to remember, even though it just happened) I grabbed the cold, wet cloth from her and pressed it against my nuts. It was like pouring gasoline on a fire.

“What the fuck is on here?!” I yelled as the renewed burning intensified.

“Just water,” she replied, laughing.

Remember, kids, a wet washcloth actually makes Icy Hot hurt more, even when you think it’s almost run its course. Do not try this at home.

Eventually, it did run its course and settled into the cold afterburn stage. All the while this was going on, she was still flogging my ass. Running the rubber tendrils down my back, across my ass cheeks, between my ass cheeks (where, it’s worth noting, she also got some Icy Hot), then fwap! Again and again. Raining down a half dozen or more blows at a time, alternating between cheeks and my upper thighs.

After a little bit, the pain stopped being so harsh and shocking. It turned the corner into something else. It’s hard to describe since it hurt just as bad, but I stopped crying out with each blow and started sighing and moaning and sometimes not making any sound at all. It started to feel warm and almost comforting. Instead of flinching and leaning away from her blows, I started to edge closer, moving my ass higher to meet them sooner. Everything I wanted, everything I was, all I’d ever be, at that moment, was the sweet pain. I wanted it to go on and on. I never wanted it to stop. It was just. So. Wonderful.

Then it was over. She had a light sheen of sweat over her (it’s rather warm today) and had had enough. I could have kept going indefinitely. Regardless, I laid across her legs, still on my knees, and hugged close to her thighs and just basked. Angry red and purple streaks were raised on my rosy cheeks while the most contented afterglow radiated within me. This is something else I can’t describe. It’s like a post-orgasmic glow, but different. All I wanted to do was stay like that, hugging her legs, moaning little moans with my eyes closed, thanking her, telling her I loved her. Rapture. Pure rapture.

I can still feel the stinging as I sit here and type. I want it back, that feeling. I want her to hit me some more. Hard and fast, like before.

Only this time, no Icy Hot, please.

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Sunday…I guess

I asked the question I shouldn’t have asked. Whilst massaging her feet yesterday evening, I asked if she had given any thought to when I would be locked-up again. No, she hadn’t. She was getting around to thinking about it, but hadn’t really expended any brain cells on it.

“Sunday,” she finally said.

So why Sunday? It’s so arbitrary. There’s no good reason I’m not locked-up now and there’s no good reason for it to be Sunday. Why not right this second? Why not last Wednesday? Why not next Tuesday? The insecurity came back. I felt like it didn’t really matter to her one way or the other. If I hadn’t said anything, how long would she leave me out? If she didn’t want me back in, I didn’t need to be. If she really didn’t care…well, we could just stop messing with the damned thing.

Yeah, total overreaction. My problem is I think about this stuff all the time. I want there to be a rhyme and a reason behind it all. I want her to have a purpose for leaving me out or locking me up, or, absent one, at least to pretend like there’s a purpose. The whole, “Well, I hadn’t really thought about it…I guess Sunday,” thing just reiterates that she doesn’t think about it as much as me and really doesn’t seem to care if I’m locked-up at any given moment. And of course, lock-up is synonymous with control. If she doesn’t care about lock-up…well, see where my fevered little pervert brain takes things?

Like I said, total overreaction. I can hear many of you thinking, “Gah! Stop with the whining, you ass! Don’t you know how lucky you are!?” or something similar. I know, I know. But I want there to be reasons for the things we do. Consequences. Structure. Thought. It’s not just about being denied orgasm, it’s about being denied for a reason. Maybe I ask too much of Belle since this really is my kink, not hers. Maybe I should just go with the flow and be grateful that she’s willing to go through the motions and deal with the high-maintenance basket case to which she’s found herself married.

I’ll just crawl back into my little hole of insecurity now.

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Right this second

Sometimes, I start to write a post meaning to say one thing and end up saying something else entirely without even realizing it. That happened yesterday. I related the fact that we were in the hot tub but got all carried away with her furtive little kicks to my groin and forgot the Really Big Thing™ we talked about.

In my opinion, there’s always been in the back of Belle’s mind the idea that what I really want – the thing that’ll make me most happy – is to actually come like a fountain at the end of all the teasing and denial. Maybe, once upon a time, that was true. But not anymore. We both agree that when I’m in the phase I’m in right now that we’re both happiest with the D/s. The power of my sexual frustration has stripped away my self-centered mantle just enough so that I’m especially attuned to her needs. I’m not going to try to get too psychological about it or fall into any of the typical Femdom stereotypes, but there is something to the idea that a woman can harness her man’s need for sexual release and focus it on more productive (for her and the relationship) pursuits. That’s where I am now. I know I’m not the same person when I’m like this. Well, the same, but a different version perhaps. I act very differently. She’s used my desire to change my behavior, and I like it.

I spend a lot of time thinking about whether or not I’m a “true” submissive or if the denial just makes me one. I still think it’s the case that I’m not a real submissive, but the truth is, I like being turned into one by her. Just the idea that my natural urges are being used to modify how I behave is a huge turn-on. Plus, I recognize that she’s happier with me and the relationship when I’m in this state. I’ve touched before on how maintaining the sweet spot between the more selfish apathetic condition of my normal self and the leg-humping horndog of me carrying way too much pent-up sexual frustration should be our goal.

So, back to what I really want. In fact, what I know now is I never want to be sexually sated ever again. I never want to be in a position where I’ve achieved so many orgasms that I’m totally uninterested in maintaining a submissive position with her. In the past, she’d give me lots of release around special occasions or, once she let me come, she’d let me come a lot. Recently, she’s moved away from that strategy and I’ve found that, yes, there is a hit to the sub energy after I’ve come, but the bounce back happens much more quickly if they’re singular events.We are both so much more happy with how things are right this second that we should make right this second the model or our relationship and not some ideal espoused by the dominant phallic-centric popular paradigm of sexual perfection.

Also, with regard to “special occasions” (such as romantic get-aways or birthdays or anniversaries or what have you), I think what they offer is a special opportunity to make the denial even more effective. Yes, the romantic anniversary trip we’re taking to Mexico in the Fall is a classic scenario where a normal, sexually equal husband should expect lots of terrific orgasmic sex. And that’s exactly why I shouldn’t get any. My orgasms, as I’ve said in the past, should be the opposite of special occasions. They should be perfunctory and banal. Everything special should be focused on her. My orgasms are to be regarded as unavoidable maintenance events to be put off as long as possible while hers should be frequent, spectacular, and celebrated.

In retrospect, this may not seem like a Really Big Thing™ to anyone who’s been reading the blog for more than a week or so. The concept isn’t what’s really big. Disabusing her of the idea that my craving for sexual release means I’d be happier once I achieved it – that’s the big thing. For both of us.