Friday night after dinner, Joscelin had me strip and stand facing the window. (The blinds were closed – it wasn’t that kind of scene.) I had just finished being emotional over something and I had been eager to be hurt or used or fucked all day, but I was afraid. He pulled out the quirt, which I think he has never used before, and which I have hardly used myself. It scared me but I worked on staying calm and accepting.
Once he started using it on me, it was very random, sharp, and there wasn’t any warning of when or where a strike was coming. But I was able to progressively relax about it. He was wrapping, and I felt I had to let him know this, and he said it was intentional. All right, then. (I was gagged, but it was the bit gag – I could speak somewhat.)
I wondered if he knew how much some of the wrapping hurt. I could go with it, though. It was all good, in a way.
And then he hit my leg and it wrapped and absolutely murdered the inside of my thigh. I started to cry, or close to it, and hunched over. He was telling me to stand up, but even when the pain started to fade I couldn’t let go of the emotion of it. I was sure he had no idea what he’d done.
“Do you know where it hurts??” I asked.
“Did I get your crotch?”
I pointed to my inner thigh, and, to my amazement (and gratification), there was a mark – two marks, actually, a deep purple bruise and another mark that looked like it might bleed (though it never did).
“Holy shit,” he said. “I had no idea I did that. You’re done.” He was clearly freaked out by it.
“No, no,” I said. “Please.” I had no desire to stop. It would have broken my heart.
Once he got that, he continued, with less wrapping. I got super relaxed and he’d have to hit me really hard over and over again in the same spot many times for me to even start to have a problem taking it. I said that night, and still believe, that he could have continued until my whole back was covered with marks like the one on my thigh and I would have just been there for the whole thing, delirious with it.
But when he was done with the quirt, he picked up the red squeegee handle, which is just a piece of wood, like a broom handle but thicker, and began to hit me with that. I asked him not to hit my back, which felt unsafe, so he focused on my ass and the backs of my thighs, and that things hurts – it is a deep, deep sting that takes a while to fade. I struggled with it. It was so hot, and totally different from the quirt – less like a massage, more sexual, more threatening.
Too soon, he was finished, and he laid me down in the bed and fucked me, which was deliriously wondrous. He had me hurt his nipples while he came.
Afterwards, it was time for aftercare, but all I could do was beg him to hurt me. I wanted it so bad. I wanted anything. He let me beg him (oh, my gratitude) and I did, and he relented, and told me to go get the nipple clamps.
Steely cold freezing feeling in my brain. I am terrified of those. I tried putting them on myself once and was completely unable to let go. I can’t believe Jos can take them the way he does.
But I got them. Part of me was singing with joy. Most of me was the steely fear.
He asked me to put them on. I dithered for a long time. I couldn’t do it. I asked him to please tell me again, and he did. I put the left one on, but I couldn’t let go of it – couldn’t let it tighten all the way. It was too painful. He made me and eventually I did. And writhed with the really unbearable pain of it. He forced me to calm down and I did – faked it, breathed as calmly as I could, suppressed some of my squirming. And he let me take it off, as I thought he would if I got to that place.
“All right,” he said. “That was beautiful. You did great.”
“May I put the other one on for you, Sir?” I asked.
He laughed, and then said yes, that I should. (He hadn’t been going to make me.) I did, and let go of it sooner this time, more painfully. Once he told me I could remove it, I purposely took it for a few more seconds before I did.
It didn’t completely help, of course. I was grateful that he gave me so much pain, but I still wanted more. It didn’t help that he didn’t let me touch myself, wouldn’t touch my pussy himself, wouldn’t let me have an orgasm or masturbate at all.
Eventually I said, “I need to chill out. This is obnoxious.” And I forced myself to let it go, to be comfortable and relaxed and post-scene and to stop hoping and begging and wishing for more. And I was just marvelously happy.
Just marvelously.
