Nelle's story from "The Opposite of Sex"
I read this on my way to the brink. It resounded.
Her husband had come home from work. The kids were gone. They decided to grab some afternoon delight. She was all stressed out over her hectic responsibilities and school schedules. I remember her saying,"I was chatty, on top, rocking my way to a quick orgasm, when he stopped me."
Pick the rest up from her own words:
But
only stopped me for a moment. When I grabbed his hand and moved it away
from a tender spot he said, "You really are feisty tonight, aren't
you," but he seemed amused. "I am only going to whip you with one thing
today." he said. "You choose."
That quieted me down. I knew
immediately what I wanted, but it is hard for me to say it. The truth
is it is easy for me to be silent and compliant, like a doll. That is a
vacation. Admitting I like being hurt, want to be hurt, making me
participate in choosing how to be hurt always makes me stumble. Its
much easier, cleaner to be forced, than to be an accomplice. But
accomplice I am, and I finally wrapped my mouth around my answer.
The
problem with me is that when I am angry, stressed, I am unreachable in
the opposite direction from where subspace takes me, and it is that
much harder to get me there at all. I think of it as being too mean to
be hurt. So when he had whipped me for a time, taking breaks now and
then to gag me with his cock, and I was finally breathing rhythmically,
yelping occasionally, calm, he stopped and asked me if I would like to
come now.
I wasn't sure if that was a rhetorical question, so I
puzzled on it a minute but he seemed to be waiting for an answer, so I
asked, "Would you please hurt me for a while more?"
Now he paused, "I think I can accommodate that request."
And
that freed him up I think, to let loose. He still had the belt in his
hand so seconds later I was back in my space. Marking each blow with my
breath, having no thoughts other than that. Meditative, calming,
peaceful. He went out of his way to make it hurt, walking around to the
side of the bed to lay the belt across my thighs then across my calves
which screamed with the new sensation. Cramped and panicked, I twisted
to the side in pain and he waited until I rolled back to lash me again.
He found my sit spots and whipped relentlessly, he pushed my legs apart
and whipped my pussy and I couldn't help but kick my feet and scream,
but I kept my knees right where he left them. He walked around to my
feet and whipped me the other way, laying the belt along the length of
my back with the tip ending up on my shoulders and then seeing how calm
and quiet I was becoming held the belt shorter and started whaling on
my shoulders and across my back so hard I was pressing into the bed, so
hard the breath was being pushed out of me. I could hear the light slap
of leather against his shoulder as he raised the belt over his head
each time before bringing it down, now across my ass, it seemed as hard
as he could, it seemed harder than he had ever hit me before. But I was
long beyond pain, beyond myself, into bliss. He shoved his cock into my
mouth again for the zillionth time and I noticed that he was harder
than ever, wider, scraping my teeth and stretching my mouth to the
limit, and I realized hurting me this way was arousing him, and I
wondered what I had done to this otherwise gentle man. But I didn't
ponder long.
"You are going to come NOW." He said. "Come here."
Just what the doctor ordered.
I looked him in the eyes afterwards and with tears still on my face admitted, "No man has ever laid a belt on me since my dad whipped me when i was a child. You are the first."
All I remember is the NEED. I would not tell him my threshold level of intensity. I left it up to him. The willing suspension of belief in order to have this happen was the overriding factor. I wanted to be hurt at that point, proved the wayward wife for I could not accept my own intuitions and decisions. Instead, I found myself face down on a literal stranger's bed, not shackled or blindfolded. Afraid of pain, afraid of being weak, afraid of the NEED, yet totally aroused by his command, actions and sure touch even then.
first recollection: I stretched my arms above my head and grabbed fistfuls of coverlet. The unfamiliar manly smell of the bedding added to the strangeness of the whole encounter. I think he spread my legs wider apart. The stinging of the flogger was replaced by the sound of the belt. He held the tongue and the buckle together and made a strap of it. He seemed to experiment with places and intervals. I did not know when the next blow would fall, or how hard it would be.
When he stepped it up after i refused to answer his queries, "Are you doing okay? Talk to me!" it didn't take long.
Something broke free inside and every sound was magnified; meaty slap of leather on parts of my back and ass. A couple of times lengthwise on vulva. I was agonized and squirming. I heard the sound but it didn't land for it was him i think hitting himself. Once more, this time across my upper arms and that is all it took. I buried my face in the bed and cried for it all. All at once, something breaking in my chest and belly that felt like phlegm loosened, oil-covered feathers released, breaking concrete. Disappointment that i couldn't take more. Relief that the pain would soon either be over or be more than i could bear.
He saw i was sobbing and i heard the belt hit the floor. I remember him getting on the bed and covering me with his body, his cock was hard in the crease of my ass, his breath coming up to my ear. He moved my hair away so he could see my face. He stretched himself out to match me and covered my fists with his hands, calmed me.
The only thing that came out of my mouth was, "I'm sorry." Over and over. All the years; all the bondage releasing; all the fear coming up like bile. He stroked my hair. I do not remember if he took me anally from behind or how long it took him or even if there was penetration. All i remember is the shame and the need and the release and the humiliation of having a totally HOT stranger privy to my innermost horror, that and the self i had denied for so many years.
I started to love him then i think. For the way he was amused that at first i didn't know how to move. If he bound me or flogged me i was rooted to the spot. For the respect he gave to my shattering. For having taken the good from his own horror; being willing to share an unveiling.
The strangeness lingers on still. I don't get many of his concepts yet about intimacy and how he flows. i am so headblind. Sometimes i know he is pleased, but he keeps me apart from much of his life, even as he offers me the sanctuary of his arms. i never know if he is satisfied with me unless he uses words(a poor substitute for me really listening). Although watching the expression on his face as he enters me and says something like "intoxicating" is a pearl i carry, but i am not telling where.
Playlist: Natalie Merchant: Live in Concert (NYC Central Park)
"My Beloved Wife" "After the Gold Rush"
