More Reasons to Love T

{NOTE: This post details a somewhat more intense sexual practice than I have discussed before. I mention it in case any of my readers are easily disturbed by discussion of pain and pleasure -- I assume that isn't an issue for most but I'd rather put it out there just in case.}



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I mentioned in my last post that I adore T, and I do, for more reasons than Daddy's increased libido. For another thing, his facial hair has begun to grow and fill in, and if he doesn't shave about once every other day, he ends up with a bristly chin (and even a bit above his upper lip, too!). This is exciting because he only bumped his dosage higher and shortened his time between shots about two months ago, so these new changes are very exciting to us both...

...in more ways than one. Before Daddy and I got together, I hadn't explored my interest in heavier pain play at all. As an idea, pain in a sexual context turned me on (immeasurably), but sometimes the things we think are sexy are just bad ideas when put into practice. Which is why a rich fantasy life is a good thing to cultivate. :)

But as his beard began to grow in, I began to get ideas. A few weeks ago, while he was gripping both my nipples and rolling them between his fingers, I gasped, "Harder!" He smirked and complied, but not enough for my satisfaction. So again, "Harder!" and again his smirk, until he had both in a vice grip and I was writhing with pain...and on the edge of orgasm. The next morning he looked me over, certain that I should be bruised and over-sensitive -- and I was sensitive, but not bruised, and not at all in pain. Instead I loved him even more fiercely for daring to hurt me in ways I wanted so desperately but had been too afraid to request before. I really thought he would draw the line at my nipples, much less my cunt or clit. Happily, I have been proven wrong.

(And before I continue, let me make it very, very clear: this is what I want. The pleasure I get from all this eclipses anything that came before, and I could not and would not choose to go back, ever. I do have a safeword in place, and he always listens if I need to back off or stop entirely. I have never felt safer, more loved, cherished, or protected than I do when I am in his arms. This is what I need, and I am extraordinarily lucky, because it's what he needs, too.)

Once we discovered this mutual love of nipple torture, I often found myself laying on my side with him behind me, my arms over my head, his arms wrapped around me and crossed in front of me, one nipple in each hand, and his slick cunt pressed to my hipbone or against my ass, his breath hot in my ear as he came and came and came. I writhed with him, (his pleasure only fans the flame of my desire), and sometimes brought out my favourite vibrator. But still I wanted more.

One night, he had one nipple in his mouth, teeth gently scraping the tip, while he twisted the other. He let the one slip from his mouth to say something to me, and accidentally scraped it with his beard scruff. And I gasped: it felt incredible! "You like that, pet?" he asked -- he never misses a single reaction from me -- and when I nodded frantically, he lowered his chin and began to scrape my nipple back and forth. Eventually I came hard -- HARD -- and hid my face.

"What's wrong, baby?" He pulled me close and gently turned my face to his.

"I'm sorry, I just thought you might not want to do that. I've wanted you to but didn't know how to ask or if that was too heavy for you..." I trailed off. Everyone is different, and not every person that is into BDSM is into it to the same degree. Some tops are happy to whip one's back bloody but wouldn't dream of dealing pain to one's more delicate bits. I don't know why I didn't just ask him how he felt about it...well, I guess I do. I just wasn't sure I could take it, and I didn't want to open a door that I'd then have to close later.

At any rate, the door was open and we both loved it. Scruffing, as we called it, became a regular part of our lovemaking. One night, as I was stuck at the edge of orgasm, he growled in my ear, "Come, or I swear I'll scruff your cunt bloody." I think I almost pulled a neck muscle riding that orgasm out.

So there it was, out there as a threat but not in practice at all. I have mentioned before that I am reluctant to receive oral sex -- I have a bad history with it, but also I feel that I take too long (I know, there's no such thing as taking too long, and this is not at ALL coming from Daddy. This is all my own issue that we are both working on together.) and most of the time it doesn't get me off because I can't allow myself to relax into it.

But Daddy loves it, and I love to make him happy, (and I love that he makes me feel so wanted, so beautiful, so special to him), so normally he'll tell me that he just wants my taste for a while, and normally I say I'd love to be close to him like that but as a forewarning I don't feel like I'll be able to come, and we both agree and he goes down on me for a while, and it feels wonderful, and then we continue on with something else that often does make me come, usually internally rather than from my clit.

One evening he was on his stomach between my legs, his tongue lightly stroking my clit, while I held my outer lips open for him. He gripped my inner lips, pulled them taut, and sucked my clit into his mouth. This always makes me squirm, so he presses against me more firmly, and that's when I felt his chin digging into the entrance of my cunt.

It was prickly and sharp and it hurt. And I loved it, and I swear I got twice as wet in mere seconds. I pressed my legs further apart and bucked my hips against him, increasing the bite of his whiskers into my sensitive flesh. He looked up at me and smirked, then slowly began to shake his head. Oh my god, my eyes rolled back in my head and I had to beg him to stop and fuck me right that second. I came and came.

This brings us to last night. We'd worked until very very late, but when we got to bed I was too keyed up to sleep even though it was a positively ungodly hour. So I smoked up and was able to relax enough to lay down and turn off the light. He leaned up and over me and began to kiss me, and soon we were making out furiously and both of us were naked. I am much, much more responsive when my inhibitions are lifted, and there's been a lot of life stress on us both lately, so this relaxation has been a long time coming.

He bit at my nipples, pulling and twisting them with his fingers, and I panted -- it felt so good I thought I might be able to come just from that (which would be a first for me), but soon he pushed me up the bed and spread my legs, pressing my lips apart and attacking my clit with his tongue.

It felt heavenly. I went from aroused to desperately aroused in seconds, though I just kept wanting him harder. I couldn't speak, could only moan my encouragement, and as he pressed against me I again felt his chin against my entrance and his whiskers biting into me. I wantonly thrust against this pain/pleasure, wishing desperately that he'd make good on his threat from before. As his tongue grew tired, he responded to my hip movements and began to scruff my lips and vulva. I was in ecstasy and tried to press my clit against the roughness, unable to ask for what I so desperately wanted.

And then he did it. His chin rubbed against my aching clit, the hard bristles scraping my skin painfully and yet all I felt was pleasure. I snapped my hips against him, dragging my cunt up his chin from clit to the very bottom of the opening of my cunt. I realized I was probably scraping the skin enough to make it hurt the next day, but I didn't care. I was on the edge of an orgasm of a magnitude I had never before achieved, and he felt it, too. He grabbed my hips, roughly spread my lips, and scruffed my clit, over and over, hard.

I came after a few seconds, my eyes rolled back in my head, and I think I screamed. (Not in pain, I assure you.) And this morning I am sore, yes, (but not bloody, not even last night) and no, I don't plan on doing it again today (I don't intend myself serious or long-lasting irritation), but I will definitely, definitely be asking for it again. It was blindingly intense, wonderful, and the hottest thing I've done in a long time -- and that's saying a lot, since I think my Daddy is the hottest thing this side of the sun itself.

Have I said it lately? I am a lucky, lucky grrl.

Fantasy

Before Daddy and I moved in together, we often wrote back and forth to each other. One day, he asked me to make a list of some of my darker fantasies for him. I am working on another post right now but decided to share this while it's in progress.



1. You've got my back against the wall and are right up in my face and I laugh at you, which infuriates you and you slap me several times. My eyes well up and you laugh at me, grabbing my arm and twisting it up behind my back. (Note: my arms are double-jointed so you can pretty much put them how you want them.) You throw me on the bed, face-down, yank my pants off, and poise yourself to fuck me with your cock...and stop with the head juuuust inside me. You growl in my ear until I begin thrusting my hips up against you, trying to get you inside me, but you maddeningly remain still. You wait until I'm crying and begging for you to fill me, and instead you roll me over and make me suck you off. And then we go to sleep.

2. You make me kneel on a chair before you, facing the back of it, and you stand just up against me with one arm across my neck and the front of my shoulders. Holding me tightly, you tell me not to move, not even to twitch, and not to make the slightest sound. Then you begin to cut me like you did the last time we were together, only this time there are many, many more. I remain still but whimper inadvertently as my wetness runs down my thighs. This infuriates you: you gag me, throw me over your lap and spank me. No matter how hard I cry into the gag, my pleas never make it to your ears.

3. We are at a club and I am naked from the waist up. You are fully clothed, all in black, and you are binding me to a cross, my back to you. I have the impression of people gathering to watch us, and you smile cruelly at me as my eyes widen -- I prefer our scenes to be between us, but that doesn't matter. You tell me I may scream but I may not speak, and I nod. Then, after what seems like hours, you begin to whip my back and shoulders, starting with something not TOO horrible, but ending with a signal whip that makes me bleed. I cry and scream...but I don't speak, and you tell me you are proud of me as you take me down and hold me in your lap until the world comes back into focus.

4. We are in a strange house and I have done *something* that makes you furious, much more cruel than usual. Something in your eyes brings out the fear in me -- terror, really -- and I drop what I'm doing and run. I don't know where I'm going and I can feel you just behind me, so I drop to the floor and try to hide in a convenient closet. The door is partially open; I hear your footsteps pause as you pass the room I'm in. I'm going to be caught, I know it, and I curl myself into a ball and hide my face in my arms. But you throw the door open, grab me by my hair, and haul me out to the living room with me fighting you every step of the way. You throw me into the middle of the room on the floor; I regain my feet only to find you with a knife strapped to your belt and a predatory look in your eyes. I run again but it's futile; you corner me easily. You are shouting at me, calling me all kinds of names, I am slapping at you and in a frenzy of panic -- and you grab me by the throat and pin me against the wall. I can't breathe, I can barely see...and I lift one hand to my lips, kiss it, and place it on your lips because suddenly I am so turned on I think I may die. You use my throat to force me to my knees and slice my clothes from me. Then you run the tip of the blade over my body -- my cheeks, my lips, my throat, down to my nipples, over my belly, down my thighs and between them, prodding my clit, and then you shove me onto my back and roughly spread my legs. I am perfectly still when you trace my lips with the knife, and when you stop at my cunt, you take my chin in your hand and force me to look at you. I have no idea whether or not you'll actually do it, and a wild part of me wishes that you would.

5. You are fucking me and choking me at the same time, so much so that the room is black around the edges and I feel as if I'm on another plane of reality.

6. You play-pierce my back, corset-style, and lace me up. I shiver the entire time but you don't seem to mind.

7. This one is simple: put me in a corset (a real one) for the first time and lace me into it. Be rough.

8. We go to dinner and you don't give me a single choice about anything: where we go, when we go, what I eat, what I drink. We go out dancing and you make every decision there, too, up to and including deciding when we are going to go fuck in the back and how many times I am going to make you come. And wherever we go, you lead me by the wrist.

9. You leave me unrestrained and whip me until I collapse from sheer exhaustion. Then you punish me anyway for moving without permission.

10. This one makes me feel guilty because it's so selfish: we go away together for a weekend and you decide that I am finally going to come for you. So you spend the entire day teasing me while we're out, talking to me cruelly, telling me that if I don't come I am being especially bad, making it into something that I need to do for you, for us. You stroke my nipples and my lips through my clothes in public, but never touch my clit. Later, when we're alone again, you spank me with your hand and with your belt, and finally I manage to come with your hands bruising my hips as you bite my clit and I sob in agony. (and who knows if that would do it...but in my fantasy, it does.)

11. We are at a secluded cabin in a forest -- the kind with beams in the ceiling. You throw a length of rope over one of them and tie my wrists to it, pulling me up onto my toes. Then you whip me until you're exhausted: my back, my ass, my thighs, my stomach, my breasts, all over until I am a mass of welts. Then you let me down and I kneel before you, my entire body pulsing with agony, and fuck you with my fingers and tongue until we both pass out.

I could go on forever. These are just the first few I thought of...

A is for Anal

So, anal sex. When we got together, both Daddy and I skirted the issue nervously and left it alone for the most part. I had tried it before, a couple of times, but always with little pleasure and more than a little pain. Never more than a fingertip had entered my body, and even then it was just Not Good. Orgasms for me are almost purely mental and if I can't talk myself into arousal (or if my partner doesn't talk to me while fucking me) it just isn't going to happen, and I couldn't coax myself through the pain to any kind of significant pleasure. So I stopped, somewhat regretting that I couldn't just DO IT -- I mean, it looks fun. I like the idea; the thought of having a second orifice available for penetration turns me on greatly. Just, in practice, it didn't work.

On the other hand, I have been the "giver" of anal sex, (oh, I know that is totally not the way to word that but I can't think of a better way to say it right now!) with nearly every partner I have had. I like the way my fingers feel buried in my lover's ass, and I love the intensity of the orgasms that come (heh) afterward. I really enjoy being the penetrative partner, the one to assess the situation and go slowly when it's needed, or faster and harder when it's time. I function very well on that kind of level and it makes me feel extremely connected with my lover. And it makes me feel very...tenderly protective. It's the closest I come to topping, honestly.

As we became more and more comfortable with each other and ourselves when we were in bed together, both Daddy and I gradually admitted that anal was one kind of sex we hadn't been comfortable exploring, but that now we were both curious. In fact, his previous partner had used anal sex as a target of ridicule and made it seem filthy, something of which one ought to be ashamed. (Need I add that they never even tried?) He was even more reluctant to admit his interest because of the mentality that he'd become accustomed to. It took a lot of coaxing on my part to help him understand that I find nothing about him or his body filthy or gross, and never could. Besides, I really do believe that if sex isn't messy, (at least SOMETIMES), then you aren't doing it right!

Earlier this week, I was going down on him, mouth snug against his clit, two fingers working deep inside his cunt, (wet, always so amazingly wet for me), when he asked me to please add his ass to the mix. It pains him to make this kind of request, and I don't actually require that he does it, but since this is such a sensitive issue with him, I am often reluctant to just go for it without knowing it's what he wants. When he made his request my heart swelled with pride for him and, fully aware of the effort it had cost him to ask, I gladly reached for the lube.

It took a little doing, as I was already laying on my stomach between his legs and partially propped up on my elbows, but in a few moments I was able to maneuver my left hand carefully between his cheeks. I stroked there gently, moving my mouth back to his clit and sliding the fingers of my right hand back into his gorgeous cunt. (Side note: I am unbelievably careful about which hand goes where -- I NEVER use fingers on the same hand to stimulate his cunt and his ass at the same time, much less move one hand from his ass to his cunt. I use my left hand for his ass and my right for his cunt, always. I just don't want to transfer any bacteria where it shouldn't go. Totally careful at all times about this.) He was tight -- nervous, I think -- and so I didn't push at all, just gently ran my fingertips over the ridges and valleys of him, feeling the contractions elicited by my fingers in his cunt echo in the twitches of his anus. It was lovely and I was prepared for that to be the extent of our exploration for the evening.

However, I think the sensation of so much stimulation between his legs was what allowed me to accidentally slip one fingertip into his anus after only five minutes or so. He moaned deep in his chest and began to buck against my hands, a huge orgasm washing through his body and shoving my fingers out of both ass and cunt. He is so strong! I hung onto his clit with my mouth, tongue working furiously, and penetrated him again in both holes. Another orgasm, this one complete with his body lifting entirely off the bed and shouts of pleasure that I'm sure were audible to our neighbors. (What do I care? Let 'em be jealous. :)

He begged me to stop then, and I did. His emotional reaction afterward was entirely reasonable; he was shaken by the pleasure he'd felt and still in the throes of "butt-shame" as he calls it. I washed my hands quickly, came back, held him, comforted him, and reminded him that he is beautiful and so his his body.

It's true; his body is perfect to me. It is a source of so much pleasure for both of us, and feeling him come as hard as he did that night satisfies me in a deep, intense way. I love when he lets me hold him, I love to take care of him, and that night brought out my tender, protective side like nothing had before.

He's my Daddy and I love him until the end of time and beyond.

(Soon I will detail my first experience with receiving anal from him. It was...intense.)

Poetic license

"Want to play?"

His breath was warm against my ear. When I craned my neck just enough, I could catch a glimpse of him in his black binder and camo shorts; he was wearing my favourite outfit of his. The binder accents his muscular arms and flattens his chest; he carries himself so differently when he's binding. The charisma he exudes is even more enticing than usual and I? I am lost in the dangerous purr of his words.

Unable to respond, I simply shake my head. No, Daddy, I don't want to play Maria Callas with you. It's a game I can never win, though it is fiendishly simple. The one and only rule: don't move, even as the razor slices deep and the cut lasts as long as her voice holds whichever note he chooses. And this is his favourite recording of her, so he cheats and picks only the longest passages, the times when she impossibly lilts up and down the scale for longer than I ever thought anyone could without breathing.

Opera singers. Sometimes they are the bane of my very existence.

But my denial is feeble, cursory at best. One of his long-standing rules is simple: I cannot use the word No when speaking to him. Sometimes, when he is feeling especially vicious, he will take a simple head-shake as a No as well, and make me pay for that. But last night he simply laughed.

"Come on, pet. We'll just play real quick." I tried my best, I really did, but every time he cut me my hips thrust helplessly into the bed, even as the tears came, wetting my cheeks. I cannot deny that the feel of his lips against the blood on my back turns me on terribly. Recently he confided that he can sometimes come simply from the taste of one mouthful of my blood, one deep slice of my skin, and that's all it took to reframe this practice of ours. Now I can take even the most painful cut, knowing that it feeds him even as it does me.

Before him I never dared to consider this kind of surrender, giving him the very flesh of my body to carve, the very blood in my veins to paint with or taste, as he pleased. Now I am fulfilled completely by the depth of our bond: fluid-bonded, soul-bonded, as he whispered to me last night, after the pain stopped. I cried then for a different reason; I have never felt love like this before. I am the luckiest girl in the world.

On Safewords

I've been following an ongoing discussion about butch/femme relationships (among other things) at Sinclair's blog, and while I'm not ready to tackle what *I* think about various gender expressions and sexuality, I did note an interesting comment from one of her readers about safewords.

Actually, I'm going to go back and find the comment so that I can give credit where credit is due: Kimi Dreams (here's her blog) commented on this post by Sinclair and mentioned that not all BDSM relationships utilize a safeword. All of this is to set the stage for me to say: we started out without safewords, Daddy and I. It worked at first, as we both grew more confident in our desire and in what we could expect from one another. I think we both wanted to be safeword-free for the duration of our relationship because that's the kind of friction that is most ignitable between us: what he wants to take from me and how I am able to give it up, and really, I don't want to be able to say no, and he doesn't want me to either.

But we ran into a problem. I have, as so many of us do, a very rocky time in my sexual past that occasionally rears up and bites me when I am not expecting it. One afternoon, Daddy began lining my breasts, belly, and clavicles with clothespins. The pain was searing, so intense that I couldn't keep still and in fact barely kept from screaming. I cried and thrashed but he refused to yield. Suddenly I was beyond terror -- I lost control of my emotions and began hysterically crying. I felt myself begin to panic (I have panic disorder -- normally this wouldn't happen in this situation, though) and tried to use my usual methods to calm down but the pain pushed aside everything I attempted.

"If you need me to stop, say the word," he told me, another pin biting into the thin skin above my right collarbone, but I didn't know any such word. "I don't know it, oh god, just take them off, please, please," I screamed, panic constricting my throat and roughening my voice. He saw, too late, that I was far beyond the state he had intended to put me in and immediately removed the pins, gathering me into his arms and talking to me until I was in control again.

After that, we established safewords. I can't speak for everyone in this kind of relationship, but I know for us that we need to be able to tell each other, very quickly, if things move in a bad direction. And yet I still wish I could have held on to the ideal of a safeword-free relationship...part of that is just my own pride. But I have yet to safeword because he was hurting me "too" much. So far only my own mind has overwhelmed me to that degree.

Why I Hate Drumsticks

There are twin bruises on my ass, disc-shaped, one at the apex of each cheek. They are a rich, dark purple, and the flesh beneath each is slightly swollen. My Daddy gave them to me, and though I take pride in them now, I hated their making. And I also loved it, and this, for me, is the dichotomy of what we do.

Daddy is a drummer, and one day, when I had been especially petulant with him (I admit that I do this far more often than I should; it's one of the best ways to get his full attention), he stripped me and stood me before his drummer's stool. "Stay still," he said, his hands cradling my hips as he faced me away from him and took his seat. He cued up a playlist and I winced, guessing at what was to come.

He began tapping out the rhythm of the music on his thighs with his drumsticks and I wrapped my arms around my belly and breasts, shivering away from the expected blows. But they did not fall; the music swelled and I closed my eyes, the better to hear what he was doing. When I let my guard down just a little, just enough to shift my stance slightly...that's when he hit me.

It was just one drumstick per cheek and it doesn't sound like it would hurt much, or possibly even at all, but my Daddy has a heavy hand, and he takes his drumming very seriously. This means that every beat is tightly controlled, from the speed at which the stick strikes the surface on which he is drumming (in this case, me) to the precise spot upon which the stick lands. It's always the same spot, you see, and the stick always lands with a certain oomph which, over time, becomes annoying, then painful, then unbearable. And he didn't begin with lighter blows -- no, he warmed up on his own legs -- so after five or six strokes I was already biting back sobs and trying not to twist out of his way. (I failed in this; I always fail in this.)

I am not at my best with real pain or even with extreme discomfort. I cry, I whine, I protest, I don't take it gracefully. I fight it, and I fight him. I'm trying to learn to control these impulses but the truth is that I think he likes the fight in me. He likes to force submission from me...and I like for it to be wrested from me. The thing is, the more it hurts, the more I cry, the harder he is on me, the wetter I get and the better the sex is.

So yes, the bruises on my ass are deep and precise, but they came from a beating that my Daddy gave me and I accepted from him and though I cried at the time, I am grateful to him. I am never more peaceful than when we are laying together after a wild, passionate, angry, tender period like this; it's something we both need and it brings us closer. That's what the bruises show me: how much we love each other.