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Saturday Night

April 28th, 2009

So I’ve been jealously guarding the details of Saturday night. They’re mine, damn it. And I wanted to keep them. At least for a little while.

Of course, part of that is because I got lost somewhere in the middle. I forgot what happened almost as it was happening.

I don’t think I can, in good conscience, consider subspace something I can’t attain anymore. We were definitely doing it wrong. And it’s my fault for not speaking up sooner.

One of our favorite things to do, lately, is have insanely long, insanely intense mutual masturbation sessions that eventually turn into wild monkey sex. Let me tell you how giant a step this is for us. Somehow, I think if we’d both opened up this much six years ago we’d have had fewer problems along the way. Maybe not. Who knows, right?

I still don’t remember much. I remember Master wanted me to torture my clit. Had said so two or three times throughout the day before we ended up on the couch watching porn. But I wasn’t interested. I wanted to be beaten.

Oh, I tried to do what He wanted. I sat on the couch for a good hour playing with clamps, fucking myself with my broken vibe and such. It just wasn’t doing anything for me.

When He suggested I get on my hands and knees on the floor so He could beat me, I flew off the couch. Which is bizarre. I’m usually a little apprehensive. I can never tell what kind of sadistic mood He’s in. If He’s just going to wale on me until I’m begging Him to stop or His arm falls off or if He’s going to start out slow and let me ease into it so that it’s pleasurable rather than just yummy cause it hurts.

More often than not, in these sessions, He eases me into it. And He did this time, too.

He went through His arsenal within the first thirty minutes. I think the only things He didn’t use were the crop, the suede flogger He made (Which would probably be suitable for a pussy whip but we’ve discovered it’s really too small for much else. And I like thuddy stuff. That one is most definitely not thuddy.) or the Sportsheets flogger we bought at Spencers for goofs (It’s next to impossible to make it hurt but it feels oh so nice sliding off the skin. Silky even.). He kept returning to the cane.

There I was. On my knees hugging two throw pillows under my head and chest with my toes tucked under the couch. My ass was pushed up against the kick board but that was no big deal. Master was after my back, anyway. He had a leg on either side of me and at the end of each series of blows He’d press them against either side of me while I shuddered and breathed through the pain.

When He’d start hitting me, I’d lean forward a little more. Give Him better access to my ass (which, like I said, He wasn’t really interested in) and allow me to bear down against the floor. And somehow, I got into the habit of pushing my ass back against the kick board when I was ready for the next set of blows. He’d watch and listen to make sure I was just in case I underestimated the pain and then start again.

I only came out of position once the whole time. Cin says I always say this, but I don’t remember Him ever hitting me that hard. Thing is, neither does He. I flew up off my elbows and He wrapped His arms around me and crooned, “Good girl.” into my ear while He held me until I stopped whimpering and shaking.

He kept leaning forward and kissing the welts as they rose on my skin. His hands would run over each one alternating between soothing away the pain and causing more. And all the while, He told me how good I was being.

I didn’t cry. I don’t much anymore. And I’ve come to realize that quite often the tears were because of negative emotions I was harboring and not the pain.

We started around 6pm. We finally crawled into bed to fuck at 2am. When we changed positions, He told me to kiss His back. And by the time He’d had enough of that, He was too tired to fuck anymore so we went to sleep. We finished fucking in the morning.

We do it weird. These scenes, I mean. We always go at least six hours so we take frequent breaks. I’ll be in sensory overload and need to just chill for a minute or His arm will get tired and need a rest. We’ll both suddenly realize that sweating eventually dehydrates you and stop to get a drink.

Often I wait till He tells me to resume my position or whatever I was doing. Saturday I just kept slipping back down on the floor and waiting till He was ready. More often than not, I was more comfortable taking my break in whipping position. But it’s hard to drink water that way.

During one of our breaks, He went to the bathroom and when He came back out I was curled up on the floor. He watched me for a long time and then said, “You belong there, you know. It fits you.”

Whether or not He’s right, who knows? But I sure was comfortable. I can’t wait to be there again.

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