Sunday, November 4, 2007
“Do you ever think about spicing up your sex life?” he’d asked. At the time, I was dating a quaint engineer with a strong future lined up in automotive. The man I was talking with was a long time friend, someone I trusted to indulge me in any conversation he or I desired. This sex talk, however, was a switch. Sure, I had fantasized on occasion what it might be like to be with him, but I didn’t entertain it too much further than that.
“Why, do you think yours is boring?” I often wondered about his relationships, his booty-calls, and his conquests. He really could have anyone he wanted. His swagger alone would drag me to pull off my clothes. Most women’s eyes, I noticed, stopped at his package.
“No, my sex life is fine. I just wonder if there could be something more, something more real and honest.”
“Aren’t your conquests honest now?” I asked, knowing full well that they weren’t. And he knew I knew they weren’t. Goading him on was part of the fun.
“Honest enough for what they are, Jules, but what I’m talking about is more primitive than that, more ethereal even.”
“Well, what then, pray tell, are you talking about?”
He said it so fast I though he was using some new texting slang. I stared and he repeated, with explanation.
“BDSM. As in, bondage, discipline, sadism, masochism. Ever hear of it?”
Had I! Every book I owned to lead me into masturbatory pleasure had to do with it. Every time I read one sent me into Catholic guilt. I had the most powerful orgasms reading them and the most profound guilt over them. I had long ago cast off the net of organized religion, but somehow the sex teachings kept hold. In all my encounters with men, never had I had orgasms as powerful as the ones I created with my books from Chimera.
I had, though, entertained this man, my best friend, as the deliverer of various scenarios in those books.
“Jules? Julie? Are you going to get back to me here?”
I must have looked glazed over, as if someone had just found my stash of BDSM books. “Well, to be honest, I have heard of it before. I’m not sure I want to discuss it with you though.”
“No problem. Let’s try what our favorite sports stars are up to instead.”
And he began a litany of stats about our local favorite teams. I sat and added commentary occasionally, but mostly I wondered why he would ask me about reality and honesty in sex.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
I wish I didn’t feel this way. I wish I were normal in my desires. But really I am normal, at least for me.
I am currently face down on my bed with my bottom propped up by various pillows –the green floral one from the den, the purple and pink striped one from the sitting area, and my own sleeping pillow—ready for my spanking. The one I deserve, the one I am dreading.
His voice shakes me a moment, making me realize this is real. “Yes?” I notice my voice squeaks.
And just as he finishes those two words, his hand comes down on my left cheek. I flinch inwardly but don’t move. That would make the next one worse, I’m sure. The next one lands on the right side. He’s really spanking me. I try to normalize my breathing. It had gotten shallow and shaky while I waited. Now that we have begun and I am not dreading this, I need to settle in. Settle in for the hundreds of spanks that will be delivered to my quivering bum.
“Do you know why you are receiving this session?”
Why is he asking me questions? I’m not really in a position to answer. But if I don’t it might get worse. And just as I have thought, five rapid smacks mark my tender spot right underneath the cheeky, fleshy area where bum meets thigh.
“Because I failed you?” I venture.
It must be wrong because five more land in a similar spot on the other side.
“Try again, Jules, or we’ll be here so much longer.” And with that I get alternating smacks on that spot on both sides for a count of twenty.
His intensity spurs me on. “Because I deserve it. Because I am a dirty girl. Because I fail myself so often.” Now that I’ve started, it all seems to crash out. “Because I start projects I don’t follow through. Because I try to tell you things and they don’t come out right.” Now I am breathing heavy with the onset of tears but not because of physical pain. No, these tears are for emotional pain and private suffering.
“Good, Jules, good.” His placating tone does not stop the rain of smacks. At this time though he does not push me for more verbiage. I am sure that in future sessions more will be expected. Hopefully by then I will have more to express.
“Let’s move on. Spread your legs.” I do. But I don’t know his intentions. We hadn’t discussed this part, how he would do it. Just that he would. So I spread my legs. I feel his fingers reach between them, touch my wetness. I must admit I am not surprised at this. “You are soaked,” he informs me, “I do believe you need the rest of it.”
His hand raises and hits my bum at the top, then it hits again a little lower, overlapping the first, then a third a bit lower, continuing down to that tender spot by my thigh again, ten in total. It starts again on the other cheek. Then back to the first, this time with narrower spacing to allow for fifteen. Then the other side with fifteen. And back to the first side to do twenty and finally the other side for its twenty. Forty-five total on each side.
But not quite done.
He gently rubs my now, I’m sure, red ass. It’s his left hand because it feels cool. He dips down between my thighs. I pant with desire, surprising myself. I expected suffering, not delirium. I eek out a few words, “Are we done?”
“Not by half, Jules.” And his hand leaves my soaked crotch but come crashing down in the same spot. I moan with unexpected desire and lust. He’s spanking my on my most sensitive skin and I am enjoying it. How is that possible?