So this particular post has been spinning around in my head since the very early new year. I have hesitated for a few reasons, which I am sure will come to light as you read this two-three post series.
Isn’t it funny how Bdsm is referred to as a ‘scene’, as if we are all D-list actors in some low budget porno. I get that we often script out our play, talking out our various limits before playing it out in the hopes that we avoid those slight misunderstandings that can potentially ruin a good relationship. However there is a chance in any scene that you don’t plan for every contingency, this unfortunately was my experience with caning.
Not too long ago over breakfast with the man I call my Dom, the subject of caning was laid on the table. I’m not exactly sure how it started, but it probably had something to do with how much I like to have his marks on my body. As much as I love his thick brown leather belt, the one he wears almost daily, the marks it leaves behind are not of the lasting variety.
I tend to get wet at the drop of a hat, and being the twisted little masochist I am, this was no exception. So there I sat, squirming in my seat, dripping wet across the table from him; oblivious to the crowded restaurant, my mind was focused on kneeling face down on his bed, my ass in the air and the distinct sting of a weapon I had not yet had the pleasure of experiencing, delighting my senses.
He loved the idea, or at the very least my reaction to it, either way, it was clear that I was not the only one tied up in knots over this wicked idea. On the way back to his apartment we stopped at the local hardware store where he led the way to the doweling section…..he knew exactly where to go. No hesitation, no contemplation…merely determination.
My clit throbbed as he fingered the smooth blonde wood. Carefully, he chose 4 rods of three different thicknesses, the smallest of which he doubled up. I couldn’t control the pounding in my chest; part of me was convinced that every person there knew what those rods were for.
I spent that afternoon writhing on his bed, as my Dom wrote the story of my submission across my pale skin. Periodically while I thought he was letting me rest he took pictures of my ass, bright red, aching with need.
For the first time in three months I used my safe word, I know he was beginning to think I didn’t have a limit, but he found it that day. The issue we had was that he didn’t hear me, with my head buried in the pillow I can understand that, and when I rolled away from him and he laid another across me I got angry and reached for the cane and resisted the urge to snap it.
My accusing gaze and tear stained face were met with what I thought was anger towards me. I was angry because I had finally used my safeword and I felt like he ignored me. My Dom was upset because I had only said it once, and he hadn’t heard me and instead of repeating it, I had gotten angry at him.
After I had calmed down, after our miscommunication had been cleared up and the pain had dulled to that bittersweet ache of not quite enough he looked over at me with an odd gleam in his eye. “You could do more,” he exclaimed in wonder.
What is a girl to say in a situation like that? Do I lie and say, no I’m not hoping for one more, one more to really leave a lasting mark? So I told the truth, and he gave me one more. My whole body arched off the bed, I sat back on the mark causing a bolt of pain to shoot from all parts of my backside up my body.
As I came down off the rush of pain, I didn’t want him to touch me, everything in my body hurt; that delicious, intentional hurt that lit my sick little fire of desire and made me wetter than ever for him.
Yes a part of me was upset at him for hitting me that hard, anger was my initial reaction that first time, but when I reached around to gingerly brush my fingers over the raised skin, my heart fluttered.
There is something so very primal about being marked by ones mate. I love to feel the ache beneath my skin, but more than that I crave a visible reminder that I belong to him. This mark, this bright red, tender mark turned me on more than any amount of play we had experienced to date, and I wanted more.
We both seemed excited by it, our pheromones were pouring, our endorphins running and all evening we teased each other. I told him I could probably do two more, and he said that I’d have three more before we went to bed.
If I had known just how much those next three marks would change our lives, I would probably never have agreed to them.
If you’d like to read the next section, drop me an email or comment below….