When good scenes go bad

I don't actually think of what Daddy and I do as "scenes", really. That word, to me, implies a level of planning or forethought that we don't always utilize. But sometimes, like today, there is planning involved, and even then things can go...well, wrong.

Daddy and I had an intense morning yesterday. I topped him for the first time -- like, really topped him. It was intense, it was hot, and it was totally unexpected. I have never considered myself a switch, but I must admit that I found trying out the Domly side of things was fun. I wouldn't say it got me off, exactly, but I did find it beguiling. I imagine it will happen again, but isn't likely to become the norm around here.

At any rate, he promised vengeance for my insolence, and decided he'd like to wait until today to wreak said vengeance. So this afternoon, he asked me how I was feeling (we find that checking in before starting something heavy emotionally or sexually leads to less unintended upheaval afterward -- though that was a trial and error sort of enlightenment for us) and when I smilingly told him I was fine, he brought my collar and two wrist cuffs, told me to strip and put them on and wait for him in the living room, on my knees.

Naked, collared, and cuffed, I waited. And waited. And strained to hear what was happening in the bedroom: music came on, was turned up. Various banging and knocking sounds, doors opening and shutting...but since I was not too far from the bedroom I couldn't get up and peek. He'd have caught me for sure.

Perhaps ten minutes went by. My knees and back started to complain, so I started shifting my weight around. (Note: technically I stayed "on my knees" the entire time. But sometimes it's easier to settle in that position if you rest your hands on your legs and take some of the weight that way...)

He entered the room in my favourite outfit of his: black binder, camo shorts, thick leather belt. God, he is beautiful. We recently shaved his head down except for his mohawk, so he has this black streak down the center of his head that goes beautifully with his shirt....hot. Just...hot.

I knelt up for him and he caressed my nipples with one hand as the other cupped the back of my head and brought me close against his chest. "You're beautiful, baby," he whispered to me: I whimpered in response. He slipped a finger into the back of my collar and pulled me up onto my feet, moving behind me so that my back was against him.

I actually *felt* myself becoming aroused for him; blood rushed to my cunt, my nipples became harder and much more sensitive. My hips moved of their own volition and he chuckled. It's so obvious that I love what we do.

One set of handcuffs later, (to connect my cuffed hands together behind my back), he maneuvered me into the bedroom and onto my stomach on the bed.

"You can cry, you can whimper, you can moan, but if at any time I can hear you above the music, I'm going to gag you, pet. Do you understand?" His lips were harsh against my ear and I found myself wishing desperately that he would kiss my cheek, just for a moment. But I simply nodded, and he got up to choose something off of the dresser.

He'd been careful to show me the dresser before he blindfolded me, and the contents made me cry. The flogger, a belt, the dreaded drumsticks, two clothespins, a candle, and razors. Of that list, I would only ever *request* one of those items be used on me. The rest, I loathe to varying degrees.

The bed moved with his weight when he returned. "Lay still," he warned, and I felt the cool metal of a razor against my back. Just stroking at first, not cutting me yet, but I whimpered anyway. It takes me time to reacclimate to the razor and so at first even just stroking it against my skin feels like I am being sliced to the bone.

But he knows this, so he works up to actually cutting me. I actually love the razor once I am used to it. The pain is sharp and focused and somehow it drives everything else out of my mind. A younger version of me used to cut (like so many of us do) so I still associate the physical pain of cutting with emotional release and relaxation. I like it.

The one part of razor use that I don't like is when he goes over the initial he is carving into my lower back. I scar easily, being a pale girl, and he is bent on scarring his letter into my flesh. It's been healing over for a while, though, so each time he re-cuts it now, he is breaking scar tissue and it is *painful*. I mean, really, really painful. I am barely able to stand it, and each time my entire body breaks out in a heavy sweat from the sickening rush of adrenaline.

So he did that today, and then gave me a rest in the form of a forced blowjob. This was part of the payback, see, I had tried to make him suck my cock (an activity he hates), so it was turn about. Personally, I don't mind blowjobs, even on bioboys, (except if they come in my mouth without telling me first -- how RUDE.) and I am not bragging when I say I'm pretty good at it. The only difficulty comes if my jaw locks, which is actually a very common thing for me. (I could get it fixed surgically but elective surgery isn't high on my list of things to do right now.)

Daddy put me on my side, my arms bound behind my back, and proceeded to shove his cock into my mouth. I don't know if it was the angle, or the fact that it's hard to tell how deep you are with a strap-on, especially when one partner is on their knees and the other's on their side laying down....at any rate, I ended up choking several times. And that's fine, hot even, except...the last time somehow my gag reflex was triggered past the point where I could voluntarily suppress it.

And I threw up. On his cock. Oh my god.

All of my usual okay-ness with whatever happens in bed flew out the window. I THREW UP ON HIS COCK, that's all I could think, and I couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry at first. But crying won out very quickly, because OH MY GOD, I mean...AHHHH!!! Nightmares walk in daylight: I threw UP on his COCK. And sure, some people like that, but it's not something that interests either of us...and that's okay. Also, throwing up SUCKS, and this is the first time anything like this happened to me.

Plus, it was on my favourite comforter, which just adds insult to injury.

He was great, though, not at all grossed out. He cleaned everything up, including me, and asked me if I wanted to continue or stop. I seriously considered trying to work through it, but....the horror of the situation won out and I used my safeword. He removed my collar and cuffs and held me, rocked me, reassured me that he didn't hate me or think I was gross. And he apologized profusely -- so did I -- because he hadn't meant to choke me quite that badly.

I am disappointed in myself because I really did, one the one hand, want to continue. I felt (feel) like I ruined his plans. But on the other hand, I am proud of myself for being able to clearly admit that this had put a cap on the day's activities for me and not tried to soldier on when I was too distressed. It wouldn't have been fair to either of us.

But I'm still really grossed out. Ech.

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...

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.