Two kinds of hurt

The most exquisite hurt still shows with grey-green bruises on my shoulder blades and hips. Red finger trails down my spine have faded to buff pink but my ears remain tender from MB’s bites. Memories of the sweetest of physical pain from the first 24 hours with him are subsiding with the marks on my skin.

The hurt from the pit of uncertainty in my stomach and self pity from the last 72 hours remains.

We attacked each other within two minutes of stepping inside his front door. His lean limbs manipulated and pushed my frame into every permutation, hands pulled my hair, teeth bit my shoulders, nipples and lips. He drove into me more like a need than a desire, writhing, surging, driven by inner forces for our bodies to merge. I pushed back, not caring that my plans went out the window.

We launched at each other until sweat fell off us in sheets. Later I was in the kitchen on my knees with him in my mouth. After dinner I knelt at his feet and sucked while he tried to concentrate on a television show. We woke the next morning to more of everything until soreness overtook pleasure.

I don’t know what changed during the day but the crackle of electricity in the air turned to anxiety. He was avoiding me in the politest of ways. After the endless day I went into the study to make him an offer he couldn’t refuse — I found him messaging women on a dating web site, chatting to prospects for a threesome that night. His reasoning rang hollow at the already late hour. I got ready for bed and he said he’d be behind me.

Two hours after I dozed off, his side of the bed felt cold and flat. His usual earlybird habits were another contradiction. Stress spasmed through my abdominal wall. I stepped into the lounge and he had set up a bed on the floor, watching the end of a mindless Saturday night film. I think I dropped to my knees and asked why he was shutting me out. What has changed? What is wrong? Have I done something? Please, talk to me. He didn’t want to wake me up. I am here. I am warm. I am alive and want to be woken up. His face was kind but his words were empty. He asked if I was angry with him. I’m not angry. I’m confused. You were trawling for women on the web. You’re camped out here away from me. What’s wrong? He looked at me and said nothing. My night alone in bed lasted longer than the day I had waited out.

We crept around each other like enemies forced to share a prison cell, polite but guarded. Three days trying to avoid someone with courtesy feels like a month.

When we parted, he said, “I’m sorry” and I walked into the morning darkness with heavy bags and heart. It’s impossible for me to separate sex and emotions cleanly; I can’t show or accept intimacy without accompanying affection for someone. I feel more when things are good but hit the ground harder when they aren’t.

The plane shuddered in protest against heavy cloud cover as it ascended. I didn’t care if it crashed. Five minutes later we were above an endless field of marshmallow clouds and I wanted to stay up there forever, only thirty-nine thousand feet but a lifetime away from the confusion I had fled. After years of fearing flight, I understood the freedom of escaping the earth that we’re bound to by gravity.

The Drummer was sympathetic and soothing when he collected me, but rock hard beneath his pants when he placed my hand there. Conflicting emotions and physical responses from both of us. He craved release because of my absence and I needed punishment and cleansing.

He took me when we got home. Authoritatively, as if I were stolen property that had been returned to him. He marked me with his smell, returned his tongue to my mouth and stuffed my cunt with his manhood. After he filled my ears with insults about my sluttish ways, and our urgency had dissipated, he entered me from the side and masturbated me patiently and tenderly. I fell into his pattern and finished with a vibrator, purging quietly.

He asked to come on my vagina and arse. I sat before him and he spattered the bed coverings, my body, hair, pillow and bedhead; the residue of his abstinence when I was gone.

MB e-mailed an apology and explanation. It’s enough. We both hurt in complex and partly unexplainable ways — I hope my internal aches ease with the fading of my bruises.

This is harder than I imagined.


Arrangements with MB are confirmed and I need to think about the balance between packing everything I’d like to take and everything I’ll need to haul about town. It’s not a bad problem to have.

If rationing becomes necessary, it will be difficult to decide between my old favourite riding crop or a new leather strop that makes an almighty slapping sound. A few trial swats on my calf left a glowing red patch and pleasant sting. I’m not sure the sales assistant was amused with my smack “yes”, slap, “no”, whomp “not sure” with the contents of the shop’s toy rack until I found a strop with a sensation that matched its snap. I wanted something with equal capacity for pain as a paddle, but allowing greater flexibility at the gentler end of the spectrum. The strop will be a versatile tool in my small but growing arsenal.

The Drummer enjoyed feeling the strop’s barely-yielding edge trace the outline of his balls when we were masturbating him the other night. I couldn’t help myself and laid a few slaps on his inner thighs when he was rock hard and lost in a zone of pleasure. He experienced the sensory confusion of not knowing if the treatment was enhancing or distracting his enjoyment; afterwards he described it as, “interesting.” I’ll accept that as an invitation to keep playing with his perceptions of pain and pleasure when he’s in the mood to enter my world.

I am looking forward to seeing MB kneeling naked on his bed, legs parted slightly and straining against the double-ended clip joining the ankle cuffs. When he’s comfortable with his submission, I’ll repeat the ritual and lock his wrists behind his back. And drag the implement of my choice up and down the curves of his spine, giving him light smacks on his hands. And move around to mark his chest. And thighs: front, outer and their delicate inner. And calves. And run the gentlest of lines along his cock until it’s dripping with pre-cum. Must, must, must take the blindfold to complete the vision.

If rationing becomes necessary, it might be the riding crop that keeps its place. Thankfully, lips, tongue, teeth, hands, voice and evil thoughts have the broadest range of applications and don’t need packing.

Get the whip cracking

Inner forces have swung to the dominant and are telling me to find and mark male backsides in pretty hues of scarlet. My dom/sub experience has focused on finding and releasing my submissive side but there’s an equally strong pull in the dominant direction.

The urge has been lurking under the cover of darkness, waiting for the right opportunity to pounce.

There are few challenges with finding sub men online who offer themselves blithely without as much as an introductory meeting, but they seem *too* quick to submit. Any man who offers to kneel before me without discussing mutual desires and boundaries is probably not someone with the quiet pride and inner strength I seek. Ready and immediate submission screams passive rather than submissive and leaves my blood running cold.

I don’t want target practice; I want an experience.

MB might be the answer to scratch my itch. We met briefly through work and have stayed in occasional e-mail contact. After an exchange of spirited messages, I wrote that I had the tools to temper some of his cheekiness and he would not want me to use them. He bit the cherry.

He is curious about power exchange and is intrigued that giving himself to me is a demonstration of his personal power. I can only move within and push the boundaries that he sets. I can’t take unless he’s willing to give. I don’t want the right to hurt until I’m worthy of his resolute trust.

MB is a natural leader and will make me work. The prospect of earning his suffering is both exhilarating and nerve wracking.

I’ve been procrastinating about the offer because he lives a plane ride away. I feel safe and have a friend I can call on if chemistry is lacking and I need a get-out plan, however, I have been questioning my sanity in travelling so far for a handful of days. Perhaps a few rounds of leather on my own posterior are required to force a simple decision.

I also need to think about what this experience might offer that I can’t have or do locally. Maybe packing the tools into a (locked) bag and collecting them from the airport baggage carousel is part of the adventure. Dare you to search my bag, airline employees.

I did the mature thing and flipped a coin. Heads, I go. Tails, I say no.

It came up heads.

The flight is booked. I am shitting bricks.

The Drummer has offered to drive me to the airport, bless him and his open mind.