My bruises disappoint me.
The brevity of my punishment disappoints me.
I expected more.
I expected worse.
I was relieved when it ended.
Scared and grateful when he beat me again.
It wasn't enough.
As a punishment it wasn't enough.
Cleanse me, Sir.
Whip my guilt away.
Tie down my arms so I can't
protect
my tits from your belt.
Make me suffer enough to atone.
I can never suffer enough to atone.
And it did do the job.
Even though you didn't choke me.
Even though the chain stayed out of your hands,
away from that most vulnerable
hole
between my legs.
You didn't bring a new
strip
of wood
to use as a
cane
in place of the one I angrily discarded
when I left you.
You were my Tam Lin
but I didn't hold on
as
enchanted
you changed from one
fearsome beast
to another.
I was scared.
I was angry.
So I ran.
And then looked for you in
every
other
man
I met.
Can your belt beat out of me that guilt?
Not really.
Not ever.
But spanking my pussy as you held my legs apart
Whipping with anger, with love and with lust
You slashed to shreds my stubborn will
As if with the knife you're
forbidden
to bring in the house
closing your ears and sadistic soul to the
siren song of
my belly.
I sobbed.
I suffered.
I surrendered my soul.
And offered myself to
everything
everything
I ran from before.
Oh Matron Saint of Foolish Vows,
please help me keep my word!
Showing posts with label whipping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label whipping. Show all posts
Friday, February 7, 2020
Thursday, February 6, 2020
How do you use me? Let me count the ways.
A pair of poems, written in response to yesterday's encounter and recommitment.
The literary inspiration should be obvious.
The first poem was the direct response.
The next was an attempt to wrestle it into proper sonnet form.
Wrestling indeed.
A struggle for sure.
But then, he loves seeing me struggle.
He's not into bondage, by the way.
He expects self-restraint.
Force of will.
And of not that, restraint by his hands.
Anyway, here is the pair of efforts, posted with his permission. I'm nearly trembling with delight at how returning to his control has inspired me. (He does inspire trembling. Especially with orgasm denied.)
Note: I'd be most grateful for any comments, if only to let me know that you are here and noticed that I am.
~ ~ ~ ~
With hungry thrusts you fuck your someday slave
The literary inspiration should be obvious.
The first poem was the direct response.
The next was an attempt to wrestle it into proper sonnet form.
Wrestling indeed.
A struggle for sure.
But then, he loves seeing me struggle.
He's not into bondage, by the way.
He expects self-restraint.
Force of will.
And of not that, restraint by his hands.
Anyway, here is the pair of efforts, posted with his permission. I'm nearly trembling with delight at how returning to his control has inspired me. (He does inspire trembling. Especially with orgasm denied.)
Note: I'd be most grateful for any comments, if only to let me know that you are here and noticed that I am.
~ ~ ~ ~
How Do You Use Me?How do you use me? Let me feel the ways.
You beat me to the heat and depth and pain
My ass can bear when offered to your belt
And then beyond to what you know I need.
You torture me with twists and bites and slaps
On tender tits and taunting nipple ends
While feeding on my frightened helpless screams
And holding fast my wrists with brutal grip.
You show no mercy towards those tender parts
That cower there between my beaten thighs
And blush and swell with want and pain and shame.
You fuck me sore with angry hungry lust
You fuck me sore with angry hungry lust
And drink capitulation from my eyes
And know that I will love you all the same.
~ ~ ~
How do you use me? Let me feel the ways.
You beat me to the heat and depth and pain
Your belt upon my ass can fast attain
And then beyond until my wild eyes glaze.
You torture me with slaps and bites and twists
On tender tits and taunting nipples red
While feeding on my frightened cries of dread
And making clear the purpose of our trysts.
You show no mercy to poor Pussy’s cave
That cowers wet between my beaten thighs
And blushing, swells with want and pain and shame.
With hungry thrusts you fuck your someday slave
And drink capitulation from my eyes -
And know that I will love you all the same.
Wednesday, February 5, 2020
The juicy stuff. You know you want it.
One of the Prime Directives which, I confess, I'm not always so good at observing:
I haven't been very good about that here, either.
First I give you nothing at all.
Then I blather about some married man nearly getting in trouble
because his wonderful wife is not where he is
and he's lonely for companionship.
How boring.
So I'll give you what you do want.
Just a small slice.
How we resumed our previous category of relationship after having been apart for over a year, followed by around 15 months as lovers.
Not sure what name to give the character of our relationship, as BDSM seems...
Inadequate.
And submission?
Something's missing from that term, too, although I can't nail down what.
In any case, a chance to return to that other way of being together was offered and gratefully, if nervously, accepted. Because, as he has always said and I agreed, this is not a game. Not for us. We're embarking back on it very seriously.
And there is real danger.
The Beast lurks, always lurks, though I've been warned not to refer to him by name and not to call to him. For various reasons, there are times when he can't be guaranteed to maintain control of his sadistic nature which is beyond someone who just enjoys inflicting pain as part of their sexual interactions. He loves me - he truly does love me and sometimes even manages to say the words. He doesn't want to risk injuring me, or doing something that would cause an irreparable destruction of the relationship.
"He."
I keep referring to him as "he."
I don't know what else to say.
I don't think of him as the Fiend anymore.
I don't really think of him as the Beast either - even if that name were not taboo.
We're going way, way back with my training, so I am not allowed to call him "my Master" anymore. Not there yet. And after years of calling him "Daddy" - which made us both feel ever so good - that's packed away for now. I may address him only as "Sir" but it seems weird to refer to him that way. So for now, it's just "he." "Him." No capital letter unless at the beginning of a sentence.
And today?
Today.
A ritual.
They always work so well.
Confession.
Punishment.
Forgiveness.
The confession pleased him.
I included the major sin which he was almost convinced I would omit.
And thus, my punishment was much lighter than he had planned.
Certainly lighter than I expected.
Which doesn't mean it was light.
He whipped my ass with his belt.
Hard.
Very hard, he says.
I was draped over a leather footstool and he beat me with great intent.
But he didn't lose control.
We continued in the bedroom.
Again, the belt.
On my ass, as I was bent over the foot of the bed, leaning on my forearms.
The belt.
One blow to each tit.
The belt.
Hard, between my spread legs on tissues that are much too tender to be treated that way.
And then?
The punishment was over.
He got in the bed, and had me get in, and held me to him while I sobbed, and he comforted me, and talked more about what had been said and what had been done.
And about love, too.
But the pain hadn't ended.
Hurting me for his pleasure.
As opposed to hurting me because It Needed To Be Done.
Whipping poor Pussy to make her swollen and sore, so she'd be extra tight around his cock and so it would hurt when he fucked me. Often he will spank her with his hand, hard, but this time he went back to whipping her with his belt. Hard. And then with the curled palm of his hand. Very hard. And I struggled so, because I'd made up my mind that I would not protect myself, that I would offer him whatever he felt I deserved and whatever would give him pleasure. But it hurt so much, God it hurt, the belt on top of the previous whipping, and then his hand on top of all that, and I couldn't bear it... I tried so hard to hold my legs open but our bodies must protect themselves and he was up on his knees looking down at me with a most fierce and determined expression and would have what he wanted and he pulled my legs apart, forced my legs apart, held my legs apart and I struggled but there was nothing I could do and he spanked me there over and over until I was almost beyond feeling it... everything was falling away and there was nothing but the pain and the helplessness... and I see him now. That image living in my brain.
And it's so vibrant.
So intense.
And I'm so grateful that he forced that pain on me.
So grateful that despite my struggles I offered it to him.
Willingly gave him my physical vulnerability along with the emotional.
And yes.
When he fucked me it hurt.
And yes.
I was red and tight and swollen inside.
And yes.
I whimpered and moaned and cried out that it hurt.
And he came with a roar.
And he loves me.
And no.
Of course I'm not allowed to cum.
Give him what he wants.
Not what he doesn't want.
I haven't been very good about that here, either.
First I give you nothing at all.
Then I blather about some married man nearly getting in trouble
because his wonderful wife is not where he is
and he's lonely for companionship.
How boring.
So I'll give you what you do want.
Just a small slice.
How we resumed our previous category of relationship after having been apart for over a year, followed by around 15 months as lovers.
Not sure what name to give the character of our relationship, as BDSM seems...
Inadequate.
And submission?
Something's missing from that term, too, although I can't nail down what.
In any case, a chance to return to that other way of being together was offered and gratefully, if nervously, accepted. Because, as he has always said and I agreed, this is not a game. Not for us. We're embarking back on it very seriously.
And there is real danger.
The Beast lurks, always lurks, though I've been warned not to refer to him by name and not to call to him. For various reasons, there are times when he can't be guaranteed to maintain control of his sadistic nature which is beyond someone who just enjoys inflicting pain as part of their sexual interactions. He loves me - he truly does love me and sometimes even manages to say the words. He doesn't want to risk injuring me, or doing something that would cause an irreparable destruction of the relationship.
"He."
I keep referring to him as "he."
I don't know what else to say.
I don't think of him as the Fiend anymore.
I don't really think of him as the Beast either - even if that name were not taboo.
We're going way, way back with my training, so I am not allowed to call him "my Master" anymore. Not there yet. And after years of calling him "Daddy" - which made us both feel ever so good - that's packed away for now. I may address him only as "Sir" but it seems weird to refer to him that way. So for now, it's just "he." "Him." No capital letter unless at the beginning of a sentence.
And today?
Today.
A ritual.
They always work so well.
Confession.
Punishment.
Forgiveness.
The confession pleased him.
I included the major sin which he was almost convinced I would omit.
And thus, my punishment was much lighter than he had planned.
Certainly lighter than I expected.
Which doesn't mean it was light.
He whipped my ass with his belt.
Hard.
Very hard, he says.
I was draped over a leather footstool and he beat me with great intent.
But he didn't lose control.
We continued in the bedroom.
Again, the belt.
On my ass, as I was bent over the foot of the bed, leaning on my forearms.
The belt.
One blow to each tit.
The belt.
Hard, between my spread legs on tissues that are much too tender to be treated that way.
And then?
The punishment was over.
He got in the bed, and had me get in, and held me to him while I sobbed, and he comforted me, and talked more about what had been said and what had been done.
And about love, too.
But the pain hadn't ended.
Hurting me for his pleasure.
As opposed to hurting me because It Needed To Be Done.
Whipping poor Pussy to make her swollen and sore, so she'd be extra tight around his cock and so it would hurt when he fucked me. Often he will spank her with his hand, hard, but this time he went back to whipping her with his belt. Hard. And then with the curled palm of his hand. Very hard. And I struggled so, because I'd made up my mind that I would not protect myself, that I would offer him whatever he felt I deserved and whatever would give him pleasure. But it hurt so much, God it hurt, the belt on top of the previous whipping, and then his hand on top of all that, and I couldn't bear it... I tried so hard to hold my legs open but our bodies must protect themselves and he was up on his knees looking down at me with a most fierce and determined expression and would have what he wanted and he pulled my legs apart, forced my legs apart, held my legs apart and I struggled but there was nothing I could do and he spanked me there over and over until I was almost beyond feeling it... everything was falling away and there was nothing but the pain and the helplessness... and I see him now. That image living in my brain.
And it's so vibrant.
So intense.
And I'm so grateful that he forced that pain on me.
So grateful that despite my struggles I offered it to him.
Willingly gave him my physical vulnerability along with the emotional.
And yes.
When he fucked me it hurt.
And yes.
I was red and tight and swollen inside.
And yes.
I whimpered and moaned and cried out that it hurt.
And he came with a roar.
And he loves me.
And no.
Of course I'm not allowed to cum.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Now it's you spanking my pussy
Don't kid yourself, Sir. Or do. It's all the same to me. Doesn't change the facts. You fancy yourself in control. Of your sub. Of your mind. Of your cock. Of your life. Even, perhaps, of me. You go looking for me. For someone like me. So you can insert yourself within the moist folds of my life, of the glimpses I give you of my life.
But, my horny reader. You're just the fish. And this time I'm the angler, dangling words and images on the end of my invisible line, casting them out into the waters of your search engine, until Google tosses you up on my shore.
I lick you. Those magic words are the tip of my tongue running up and down your pleading cock, barely touching at first, only teasing, only hinting, until I suck you in, take you all the way down, shove you between my cheek and my teeth, twirl my tongue around your swelling desperation, humming as I work, whispering the words you want, the words you need, the words you embroider into a dubious reality that you wish could be true, as you embellish my vignettes with visions of faces and tits and tight little pussies and even tighter little butt holes.
The words.
Like hand-tied flies,
never quite concealing the sharpened hook.
pussy
spanked pussy
caned pussy
flogged pussy
Daddy spanked his little girl's pussy.
You spanked her pussy, you spanked her cunt, you spanked her ass, you thrust your fingers inside her tortured orifice and found her hot and wet and tight and so red you could believe her pussy itself was blushing because she knows that the pain turns her on, not even a lot of pain, not even the action, just the words... like you it can be just the words... she can almost think herself into cumming... you can do it yourself, you know... just by whispering the words in her ear...
I need to hurt you, Baby.
I'm going to hurt you.
Bring me my belt, sweetheart.
Bring me the flogger.
Have the cane on the bed when I arrive.
I'm going to hurt you.
Or just the shift of your body.
I feel you raise your arm
as I'm bent over your cock,
serving your cock,
delighting your cock,
my ass up near your head,
I feel you raise your arm
and I know it's coming.
Your palm on my ass.
And by now I'm so deep into that place where you put me when you put your hand around my neck and push against my windpipe, just enough, not to stop my breathing but as a reminder, your hand as leather collar, reminding me I'm yours, reminding me of joy, flicking that little switch that always needs a little pain, a little force to take me to that place in which my face changes, my eyes change, and then I'm home.
I suck your cock.
I'm in that place.
You spank my ass.
You spank my pussy.
I'm so deep
I'm so high
I can tell you're hitting me hard
Yet barely register pain.
Please spank me, Daddy.
Please beat me.
Please whip me.
Please spank my pussy.
Please take your belt to my ass.
Please make me
moan
and whimper
and cry
and wriggle,
make me writhe and wriggle,
while you pinch my nipple
and your cock
jerks
at my gasp.
Well, that sure made me hot. How about you, Sir? Not the "You" who in reality got to spank me. You, dear reader, you don't get to spank me. Sorry, buster. You can pretend, though. No one can stop you from pretending. And I know this is what you want because you leave a trail of search words behind you. Pretty much the same ones all the time. So I sing the siren song of spanked pussies and draw you closer until you wreck on my shores.
At least I hope it helps you cum.
I do like to make men cum.
I like to see them lost in their pleasure.
And I like to feel them spurt.
To feel the action within their organs of which they are so proud.
Look how big I am.
Do you like a big cock?
I'm going to shove my big cock inside your little butt hole.
I'm going to make you scream.
You're going to suffer for me.
Is that what you'd like to be saying to me as you shove your swollen cock inside my pussy which is so damn hot because of how you tortured me first?
Think about.
That's your assignment.
Think about hurting me
spanking me
spanking my pussy
spanking my cunt
spanking my clit
whipping my ass with your belt
covering my ass with welts from your cane.
Then fucking me.
Hard.
Sodomizing me.
Using me.
Filling me.
Seizing my long red curls in your fist
And then cumming with a roar.
Like that?
I give you that as a gift.
And then I think of the man who loves me.
Who treasures me.
Who teaches me to treasure myself.
The man who didn't even try to look stern and domly when he came through my door yesterday because he was so damn happy to see me that his face was beautiful with smiles, that his eyes could hide nothing so discipline be damned, he was with his mistress, with his pet, with his slave and precious little girl and in two weeks we will have two whole days together - and nights, he says. Two whole nights.
And as of tomorrow, Labor Day in the U.S. where workers are denied May Day as their holiday, as of tomorrow September 1st it will be 6 years since I begged to be taken into my Master's service and he accepted me.
And in enslaving me, he freed me to be who I really am.
But, my horny reader. You're just the fish. And this time I'm the angler, dangling words and images on the end of my invisible line, casting them out into the waters of your search engine, until Google tosses you up on my shore.
I lick you. Those magic words are the tip of my tongue running up and down your pleading cock, barely touching at first, only teasing, only hinting, until I suck you in, take you all the way down, shove you between my cheek and my teeth, twirl my tongue around your swelling desperation, humming as I work, whispering the words you want, the words you need, the words you embroider into a dubious reality that you wish could be true, as you embellish my vignettes with visions of faces and tits and tight little pussies and even tighter little butt holes.
The words.
Like hand-tied flies,
never quite concealing the sharpened hook.
pussy
spanked pussy
caned pussy
flogged pussy
Daddy spanked his little girl's pussy.
You spanked her pussy, you spanked her cunt, you spanked her ass, you thrust your fingers inside her tortured orifice and found her hot and wet and tight and so red you could believe her pussy itself was blushing because she knows that the pain turns her on, not even a lot of pain, not even the action, just the words... like you it can be just the words... she can almost think herself into cumming... you can do it yourself, you know... just by whispering the words in her ear...
I need to hurt you, Baby.
I'm going to hurt you.
Bring me my belt, sweetheart.
Bring me the flogger.
Have the cane on the bed when I arrive.
I'm going to hurt you.
Or just the shift of your body.
I feel you raise your arm
as I'm bent over your cock,
serving your cock,
delighting your cock,
my ass up near your head,
I feel you raise your arm
and I know it's coming.
Your palm on my ass.
And by now I'm so deep into that place where you put me when you put your hand around my neck and push against my windpipe, just enough, not to stop my breathing but as a reminder, your hand as leather collar, reminding me I'm yours, reminding me of joy, flicking that little switch that always needs a little pain, a little force to take me to that place in which my face changes, my eyes change, and then I'm home.
I suck your cock.
I'm in that place.
You spank my ass.
You spank my pussy.
I'm so deep
I'm so high
I can tell you're hitting me hard
Yet barely register pain.
Please spank me, Daddy.
Please beat me.
Please whip me.
Please spank my pussy.
Please take your belt to my ass.
Please make me
moan
and whimper
and cry
and wriggle,
make me writhe and wriggle,
while you pinch my nipple
and your cock
jerks
at my gasp.
Well, that sure made me hot. How about you, Sir? Not the "You" who in reality got to spank me. You, dear reader, you don't get to spank me. Sorry, buster. You can pretend, though. No one can stop you from pretending. And I know this is what you want because you leave a trail of search words behind you. Pretty much the same ones all the time. So I sing the siren song of spanked pussies and draw you closer until you wreck on my shores.
At least I hope it helps you cum.
I do like to make men cum.
I like to see them lost in their pleasure.
And I like to feel them spurt.
To feel the action within their organs of which they are so proud.
Look how big I am.
Do you like a big cock?
I'm going to shove my big cock inside your little butt hole.
I'm going to make you scream.
You're going to suffer for me.
Is that what you'd like to be saying to me as you shove your swollen cock inside my pussy which is so damn hot because of how you tortured me first?
Think about.
That's your assignment.
Think about hurting me
spanking me
spanking my pussy
spanking my cunt
spanking my clit
whipping my ass with your belt
covering my ass with welts from your cane.
Then fucking me.
Hard.
Sodomizing me.
Using me.
Filling me.
Seizing my long red curls in your fist
And then cumming with a roar.
Like that?
I give you that as a gift.
And then I think of the man who loves me.
Who treasures me.
Who teaches me to treasure myself.
The man who didn't even try to look stern and domly when he came through my door yesterday because he was so damn happy to see me that his face was beautiful with smiles, that his eyes could hide nothing so discipline be damned, he was with his mistress, with his pet, with his slave and precious little girl and in two weeks we will have two whole days together - and nights, he says. Two whole nights.
And as of tomorrow, Labor Day in the U.S. where workers are denied May Day as their holiday, as of tomorrow September 1st it will be 6 years since I begged to be taken into my Master's service and he accepted me.
And in enslaving me, he freed me to be who I really am.
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
A pre-orgasmic lullaby of pain
Go ahead and scare me.
Make me face the ugly welcome truth that you won't stop no matter how hard I beg. There is no safe word. Why pretend? Why pretend you would obey? I'm the one who must obey.
Why pretend I want one?
Such a safe childhood I led. Such an overly safe childhood. Perhaps a handful of normal risks would have freed me from this urge to run into a burning building, ripping off my clothes as I dive into the flames. Ripping them off - into unquiltable scraps - so there is no chance of ever again covering my nakedness against singeing eyes.
So yes.
Scare me.
Go a little farther.
Show me his greedy face.
Let me see the hunger dripping from your fangs.
Give me a peek
before sleep
and the morning
send him back to his fury-fueled lair.
You know I can't help flirting with the beast.
You stayed his hand when together you whipped my butt. But later, as the night dripped on in its hours of love and desire and devotion and suffering, he pushed you away as he took the belt to my pussy. For a week the giant darkened patches of skin spoke to how hard I tried to keep my thighs apart, to accept the blows, to accept the pain, to offer pale protected skin and hidden lips and once even there on the altar my poor unprepared clit to the hard slash of the whipping belt and it was all worth it because you knew I was trying, you treasured the glorious sacrifice to your mastery and the leather and the pain whipped away the walls, the barriers, the misunderstandings, the months of private pain having nothing to do with belts across the ass and hard slaps to the face and nipple abuse that left those poor tender little red nubs of flesh chapped for days and days and how gladly I suffered for you and how valiantly you pushed me only a little past where I'd been before so that this time you just let yourself swim in the sweet soft honey soup of your pussy slave, your angel slave, all loving and gentle and more worshipful than ever as she wishes you could take your belt to her ass every evening after supper before you fucked her with love or raped her with need and now, I think, I'll take my reward and stroke my sweet pussy till I cum.
I love you, my Master.
Make me face the ugly welcome truth that you won't stop no matter how hard I beg. There is no safe word. Why pretend? Why pretend you would obey? I'm the one who must obey.
Why pretend I want one?
Such a safe childhood I led. Such an overly safe childhood. Perhaps a handful of normal risks would have freed me from this urge to run into a burning building, ripping off my clothes as I dive into the flames. Ripping them off - into unquiltable scraps - so there is no chance of ever again covering my nakedness against singeing eyes.
So yes.
Scare me.
Go a little farther.
Show me his greedy face.
Let me see the hunger dripping from your fangs.
Give me a peek
before sleep
and the morning
send him back to his fury-fueled lair.
You know I can't help flirting with the beast.
You stayed his hand when together you whipped my butt. But later, as the night dripped on in its hours of love and desire and devotion and suffering, he pushed you away as he took the belt to my pussy. For a week the giant darkened patches of skin spoke to how hard I tried to keep my thighs apart, to accept the blows, to accept the pain, to offer pale protected skin and hidden lips and once even there on the altar my poor unprepared clit to the hard slash of the whipping belt and it was all worth it because you knew I was trying, you treasured the glorious sacrifice to your mastery and the leather and the pain whipped away the walls, the barriers, the misunderstandings, the months of private pain having nothing to do with belts across the ass and hard slaps to the face and nipple abuse that left those poor tender little red nubs of flesh chapped for days and days and how gladly I suffered for you and how valiantly you pushed me only a little past where I'd been before so that this time you just let yourself swim in the sweet soft honey soup of your pussy slave, your angel slave, all loving and gentle and more worshipful than ever as she wishes you could take your belt to her ass every evening after supper before you fucked her with love or raped her with need and now, I think, I'll take my reward and stroke my sweet pussy till I cum.
I love you, my Master.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Hairbrush research continues (plus tales of my whipping)
I'm passing your comments on, of course.
From the hairbrush-as-hairbrush point of view, it sounds like a combination of natural and plastic bristles is recommended, given that my hair is thick and wavy/curly. Not the very thickest or curliest kind of hair, but it definitely has a good bit of texture of its own.
The reason the other one broke is that it was not a solid piece. Oh, and it was cheap, but that wasn't the real problem. The head flew off the handle. We were in the bathroom of the hotel room. He did get a lot of pleasure out of my poor bottom. His hand, his belt, my hairbrush... Even my collar when he momentarily couldn't find the belt!
He used the belt as a whip this time. Usually, I think, he folds it in half. But this time I had to pull the loose tale through the buckle, after which he wrapped it around his fist a few times before whipping me for long spells and at various times.
Long spells for him, anyway. Most of my spankings and beatings and canings and such have been relatively short, except as punishment/correction/training. Which much of this was. Until later, when he whipped me purely for his pleasure.
I think that when he whipped my pussy it was for his pleasure.
Plus he needed to whip me.
He needed to hurt me.
He needed to hurt me,
and then held back from hurting me as much as he wanted to.
I knew he needed it.
And I knew that I needed it, too.
And today?
I have a collection of very impressive bruises
(poor Pussy isn't looking very pink today)
and I feel very calm
and very centered
and very, very owned.
From the hairbrush-as-hairbrush point of view, it sounds like a combination of natural and plastic bristles is recommended, given that my hair is thick and wavy/curly. Not the very thickest or curliest kind of hair, but it definitely has a good bit of texture of its own.
The reason the other one broke is that it was not a solid piece. Oh, and it was cheap, but that wasn't the real problem. The head flew off the handle. We were in the bathroom of the hotel room. He did get a lot of pleasure out of my poor bottom. His hand, his belt, my hairbrush... Even my collar when he momentarily couldn't find the belt!
He used the belt as a whip this time. Usually, I think, he folds it in half. But this time I had to pull the loose tale through the buckle, after which he wrapped it around his fist a few times before whipping me for long spells and at various times.
Long spells for him, anyway. Most of my spankings and beatings and canings and such have been relatively short, except as punishment/correction/training. Which much of this was. Until later, when he whipped me purely for his pleasure.
I think that when he whipped my pussy it was for his pleasure.
Plus he needed to whip me.
He needed to hurt me.
He needed to hurt me,
and then held back from hurting me as much as he wanted to.
I knew he needed it.
And I knew that I needed it, too.
And today?
I have a collection of very impressive bruises
(poor Pussy isn't looking very pink today)
and I feel very calm
and very centered
and very, very owned.
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