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| candle_in_the_wind |
I have a spot !
It's red and tender and I am aware of it all the time.
Could it be a reaction to something stressful I've experienced?
He arrived at my house a little late and I thought we'd rush straight out to the club but he had a few extra items he wanted me to wear.
He handed me a silver labia clip, just like the shiny hair baguettes I'd wear as a child but with a more sinister, though erotic, purpose.
It is a beautiful item, though somewhat awkward to put on and I always panic when I take far too long to attach it to my inner lips and ensure the small carved bulbous top is nuzzled under my clit hood. The “arms” pinch hard along the length of my labia and the head can push hard against me causing pain or pleasure depending on the position or force.
It is not easy to walk or sit once it is clipped on. I stress about holding it in place, worried that if I become too wet it will slip from me and be lost. Finally, I had it in place and came downstairs to join him.
A steel, bejewelled butt plug was inserted in me. After the earlier incident with the ginger this seemed almost easy except the weight ensures its presence is felt at all times and increases with each minute.
His finishing touches were two small rubber nipple rings, attached using a small suction hand pump that sucks my nipples deep into the Perspex shaft, pinching and squeezing, extending them till I feared any more suction would caused me to lactate. The rings rolled on to the base of my nipples and the pump removed. Awkward and painful. my nipples already tingling at the restriction.
The adrenaline and endorphins pumping round me, I was unsteady on my feet and we had not arrived at the club yet!
I eased into the car, made no small talk. He knew my discomfort, knew my pain and it pleased him. His silence made me uneasy. I did not know what else lay ahead of me.
Within minutes of entering the club I was led over to a box frame, stripped of my skirt and corset. Left standing only in thigh boots, lace topped stockings attached to red satin suspender knickers, thankfully giving me some support, some hope, that should anything drop off or out then I could keep my embarrassment hidden.
Rope was snaked around me, along the length of my arms and legs, cutting across my breasts, my thighs. Tied artistically, expertly and very tight. Arms and legs outstretched, I was attached to the frame, my movement very restricted. Usually I was allowed more freedom, why not tonight?
Then I found out what he had in mind for me, his newly found talent, his latest hobby.
WHIPS. Not just one whip. WhipS. In the plural.
His bag placed to my side, on the very edge of my peripheral vision. He knew I didn't like harsh pain. It frightened me. It damn well hurt me. My breathing increased, my heart raced as I saw him unravel them, was aware of his arm flailing as he warmed them up, as I heard them crack behind me.
Hey, this was one of those mind games he was playing. Making me think he would strike me, making me shiver with anticipation of the pain, making me shake with fear. He wouldn't really do it.
But oh he did. Quite lightly at first and it was more the surprise that made me jump.
The strokes intensified and I struggled against my bonds. He varied the lashes, sometimes slicing across my back, like a knife cut, other times flat, a dull feeling like being flicked with a finger or a hard prod. I was on edge, on tiptoes, unsteady. Worried about marks left on my body as much as fearful of the pain.
He changed whips, now the long bull whip cracking like lightening only inches from my ears. It struck me. Again and again. Lashes were falling fast and furious. I jumped, I clenched, I was frozen with fear. I was reaching my limit.
Everything increased, my awareness, the noise, the pain, the restriction. I was overwhelmed by the plug and clip pinching at me. My nipples ached, swollen and so sensitive. I think he sensed my imminent demise and his whipping slowed then stopped. My knees buckled, only the ropes on my wrists held me up. He came to me, supported my weight from behind. I was incoherent. He stayed silent, watching me. “Stop leaning on me” I shouted at him.
He moved round to the front, continued to hold me up while others untied my bonds.
“You're still leaning on me” I said. He laughed. He knew I was in another zone, not really sure where I was, my own body lying to me.
Released, set down, fed a sugary drink and watched over until normality returned.
Though the experience stayed with me. And the marks. Criss crosses and round welts. My torso was a modern day canvas. It was artistic. I almost expected to see his initials lashed into it. It was, after all, a masterpiece.
So, could this be the answer? Could this stressful time at his mercy have caused my spot?
I'm not so sure, now. I need to ponder more.
