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| Cinnamon_Tart |
on Sat 30 Jan 10, 9:39 AM to Cinnamon_Tart's blog.
“Big deal question coming your way,” he says. The email exchange has gone on for some time, in conjunction with regular coffees, lunches, walks, hours on the phone. She frowns at the pc as she reads the next line. “Do you want to play? No sex, but play, the way I play.”
Her stomach jumps somewhere she isn't used to it being. An unexpected question. Her unexpected reaction. Yes of course there has been flirtation, of course innuendo, of course sexual tension, underpinning their interaction. But all of these addressed, discussed, quelled, contained, and relegated to neat little compartments in her mind.
And now this.
She finds herself replying with very little thought. “Need time to think, but yes. I do. I want to see what it's like with you.” And something has shifted. Such knowledge of each other as they have, but now there is a chance for more, to build another layer, to explore those bits of themselves they have so often discussed, in terms of others.
And now this.
She is nervous. So very nervous. She has not played for some time, has not wanted to. Has not felt the need, nor the desire. But here they are, her home. It is quiet. The familiar pattern of normality for their time together unfolds. There is coffee. There are cigarettes. There is fiddling with the laptop, giggling over rubbish on it, and talk. Always talk. So much talk. He and she fill their time with talk. Anything, everything, nothing. But there is flow, momentum, comfort in the dance of it.
Time passes. She wonders why he makes no move. Later, he tells her he knew she was anxious. He wanted her to relax, to feel okay, to be calm. He does not know she wants nothing more than to start. Now. Sooner. No more time to gather her thoughts and wonder at how foolish she feels.
“Shall we then?” He questions, after three coffees, an hour and a half, and several cigarettes.
“Yes, let's, “ she says, immediately. Relieved the topic has bubbled to the surface. Finally. And asks him where. Where should they play? Do they keep this slightly low key, and remain downstairs, or do they move upstairs. To a bedroom, a bed. He reflects it straight back to her, “Where would you feel more comfortable?”
“Well….” her eyes scan the lounge as she rubs her hands down her jeans, her body language hesitating just as her mind and mouth are doing. She opens her mouth to speak, but he interjects.
“That says it all. Upstairs then.”
And now this.
He had asked her, prior to today, “What would you like to do?”
“Ummm,” she had said. “Violet wand please. And knives. And hitting, and whipping. Pain.”
She has watched him sort out the wand. She has dithered over curtain closing. He says no, no one will see. He watches her as she stands, hesitant, oscillating between normal mode with him, and a quiet meek demeanour, as the knowledge of submitting to this, to him, sinks in. She can't…..quite……enter this domain.
She is still fully clothed, and realises she can't play like this, but he doesn't command her. He's letting her do this in her own time. She removes shoes, jeans, socks. Her cardigan. Stood before him now in a vest top, bra and knickers. She freezes, unable to go further.
She kneels down instead in front of him as he squats on the floor sorting out spindly homemade copper finger extensions for the wand. He invites her to touch, and she fondles them too. He reaches for her, hand on her head, smiles, and says “You've gone all quiet, and meek, on me.” He kisses her briefly on the cheek, the lips.
She manages a rather breathy, “Is that a bad thing?”
“Nooo.” In that way he has of elongating a word to emphasise it. “No. Not at all. Is kinda cute.”
She smiles. And as he brandishes bits of electric equipment at her, a gleam in his eye, she finds she feels good. This is good. Fun. Things are alright. She can adjust to this. She watches him twist the dial on the wand, till the familiar powered buzz of the thing fills the room. He reaches for her. The copper tendrils feel like little needles being dragged across her skin as he strokes them down her arms, her legs. Not painful, for some reason she had expected much pain, but there is only really sensation, tickly, tingly, sharp, but not painful. This carries on for a short while, both smiling at each other, and talking still. He tells her to stick her tongue out, strokes it; she jumps with the tangy tingle of it. He turns off the wand. And produces two knives.
“Shall we?” he asks her.
She nods mutely. And realises she has too many clothes on for this. She pulls the vest over her head, undoes and removes her bra swiftly. Self conscious. Not wanting to be. He says only, “That was brave,” and smiles at her. She can't, quite, bring herself to remove her knickers, and leaves them on. He doesn't comment.
He indicates how he wants her positioned, nodding to the brass rails at the bottom of the bed. He wants her kneeling facing the bed, leaning over the rails. She does so. She is shaking, quaking. Anxious, near naked. Has lost eye to eye contact now. Something they share a lot of, and matters greatly to both, always. She feels oh so vulnerable. The monologue in her head reduced to “oh my god, I can't believe I'm doing this, oh my god I can't believe we're doing this.”
Hands now, no blades, gentle but firm hands, large hands, stroking her, touching her, tracing her contours. Calming hands. He comments on the scars on her back.
She hears one blade clacking open. Contact now. Metal on skin. She is not familiar with knife play, has only ever had a blade held to her skin on one occasion previously. This seems to be magnified in her mind. Knives. This man. Fear. Uncertainty. But….god…the sensation.
There is contrast, a thin edge wielded in one hand, his other stroking her body still. The blade is dragged along her skin. She is shaking, but moaning out loud on occasion. Her breathing is ragged. She's aroused. Heat flooding her face, her insides. She can feel her knickers sticking to her cunt in a slick of wet. Already.
The knife is sliced along her skin. The point is dragged. He uses the knife to scrape her. She can hear the somehow tinny resonance in the blade. Can feel as he catches her hair as he drags it across her shoulder blades. In her head she sees the knife slicing through her hair, and her skin. She doesn't know how much pressure he is applying. She is afraid, but it turns her on.
She hears another clack, and then there are two blades upon her. Her mind dances to follow the altered pattern, the differing sweep of feelings and pressures as each is pricked into her, pressed along her, traced along the edges of the body she is presenting to him. She can hear his breathing, quickened, behind her. She registers a fleeting “Oh god, is he enjoying this?” question, before succumbing to increased pressure of the narrow metal ridges. She knows she's leaning back into it, into him. She's hungry….for more sensation, more pain, harsher.
She cries out as he suddenly wraps one hand around her body, and with the other presses a knife blade hard up and into her right nipple, pinching her tit hard between his thumb and the blade. Her body arches frantically against the pressure, reacting, panicked, but…..but….so aroused. Heat floods her cunt. She groans and presses her body back against his. She has no idea if he's marking her, cutting her, drawing blood. She doesn't care. Greed. Pure greed. A waterfall of dammed need and desire flooding her face with colour, her cunt with lubricant, her mind with lust.
Blades sweep over her flesh repeatedly now. The handle of one, she thinks, is pressed along her cunt, firmly. His fingers follow, tracing contours, gently teasing. His arm is now pressed up and into her cunt, pulling her body up from its kneeling position. She finds, as a blade is scratched and sliced along her body, that she is grinding and pressing herself down onto him. Pain and pleasure. And loss of self. Focus on sensation only, little thought of where she is, what is happening, what he is doing, how she is responding.
He slows, removes blades, strokes her, pulls back. Folds his arms gently round her. Settles her kneeling on the ground in front of him, his front pressed to her back. She gradually becomes aware she is clinging to his arms, anchoring herself. She looks round, up at him. “Hello,” he says. And he's talking further. “Were you aware of me talking to you during that?”
She blinks, tries to clear her head, think straight. “But you weren't talking to me?” He smiles, laughs a little.
“Right.” He holds her; she settles and refocuses, becomes aware of her body crumpled against him. Thinks of how she must look. Can feel vague sting in places from the blades. Is bewildered by how wonderful that really felt. “You're going to have lots of scratches on your back, for some time,” he says to her, smilingly. “You enjoyed that, didn't you?” She smiles, almost shyly, aware that there was very little doubt indeed that her…enjoyment….was obvious. She's painfully aware she's turned on, becomes increasingly uncomfortable with that awareness. Turns and hugs him and then moves away.
She lies on the bed, collected now, facing him, casual, chatting. Relaxed and relieved that a barrier has been broken. Not so bad, she thinks, not so bad at all. I feel normal, and that felt good, bloody good.
He moves to the bed, and wields a toy she's already experienced at his hands. “No,” she half laughs, half groans, grimaces, turns away. It is a modified electric fly swatter. No tennis racket attachment, as she thinks of them, just two prongs of wire inserted. She remembers the noise it makes. As it charges. And she's well aware she's a tiny scar on her left arm from the occasion they were fiddling with toys, she was admiring his collection, he was borrowing various items from her. And she had wanted to feel what it felt like. The very sight of the black unit now makes her perspire.
What follows is a bizarre scene, with her petrified of what he's doing, dreading each shock. The sadist in him delighting in being able to deploy minimum effort, to maximum effect. All he has to do, is press and hold a button, and then touch the toy to her skin. He does so, repeatedly, but not always with the unit charged. She leaps and writhes and jumps and squeals. And the…torture of him toying with her like this, playfully, laughing, almost giggling, is at total odds with the occasional vicious shocks of pain. The pain subdues her momentarily, but she's no chance to sink. It's too infrequent, too teasing and taunting, and he revels in threats which he doesn't deliver. Casual conversational comments, which then *are* accompanied with jolts of electricity shooting through her. She finds herself half laughing at times, then her hands flying to her face and a stream of “no no no no no” issuing from her mouth as she anticipates, never correctly, when and where and how much of a shock she may feel.
It is clear he is thoroughly enjoying this. “Shall we find out if it conducts through knickers? You do know how wet the gusset of these are, don't you?” She moves to close her legs, twist her body. He repositions her, is squatting between her legs, she can't close them. She can't cope with the threat of it, her hands flying to her face to cover herself as the “No!”s emanate ever more frantically. She's aware he's building her up to it, talking of her clit and how much he'll charge the unit, where he will apply it, and she's frantically steeling herself.
And suddenly, he calls her name, has to repeat it several times to get her attention. She uncovers her face, looks at him. He points at the bed, a position a foot from her left leg, to where the horrid black thing is lying. It is his hand at her knickers, nothing more.
“Oh! You bastard!” she manages, laughing and yet writhing to get away too. He's grinning at her. Which infuriates her further. She's not used to …casual pain, pain that is amusingly administered, not used to her suffering being laughed at. The play pauses, with just occasional jabs at her for his further amusement as she squeals and attempts to get away. They talk. He checks she's okay. She's fine.
He directs her to lie on her front now. Across the bed. And he moves to sit on her legs, his fingers tracing some of the lines on her back. He slaps her arse a few times, quite gently. “I've told you about butt bongos, haven't i?” She laughs. “And you want to know what it feels like.” He drums briefly on her bum. She worries what she looks like, how much her arse is wobbling. But the strength of the blows increases. Thinking ebbs as sensation builds. He slaps her repetitively, the strength of the blows increasing. And then he reaches for the gloves she'd asked him about earlier. “Oh, just in case I decide I want to do some gardening.” She's curious. No one has ever slapped her in gloves before.
The blows begin in earnest. Slaps, reliably placed, repeatedly. Same place on each buttock. Again and again. Over and over. She knows this feeling. The way the sensation morphs into a continuous pain, the punctuation of fresh contact, the absorption into flesh, the sting, further blows reinforcing the sensation loop. The gradual thickening sensation as flesh is traumatised.
But then, it changes. This is not slapping, this is thudding, punching. He is punching her flesh. She can hear the pounding of his fists, can feel the thud reverberate in her body, can feel her whole body pressed into the mattress, and bounce up from it again. The pain is….it is delicious. It's as if it isn't external. It's so pervasive and deep. And he doesn't stop. She is moaning, grunting, wonders if her body betrays her by pushing back to meet the blows. It is arousing in a terribly animalistic and brutal way.
She is aware suddenly of a phone. Her conscious mind bubbles to the surface. She ignores the ringing. He ignores the ringing. The blows persist, but she is aware now of another phone ringing. And she knows she must answer. The spell broken, she lifts herself from the bed. He backs off, hands her the phone from the dresser behind him. She answers, deals with the call, is now distracted. He takes the phone from her, places it back on the dresser. “So,” he says to her, “what were we doing before that interruption?”
“You were slapping and beating me,” she says.
“Oh yes, so I was. And how was I doing that? Did you like it? Shall we carry on?” and with that, before she realises what he's about to do, he physically shoves her forward across the bed. She grunts as she lands.
And the blows start again. She's astonished actually that she really likes this. It isn't like play she's done before. There is no element of sex. It's harsh, yet lighthearted, and she sinks back into the envelope of thudding hands, pain, pressure. She becomes peripherally aware, after some time, that his breathing is harsh, with the effort of raining blows on her. She's very turned on again. And he speaks to her, asks her if she wants to do something about that. “Yes,” she says.
“Yes what?” he asks. He stops hitting her. She's confused. This game is not about ds, about power play, about sex.
Her first response is to say “Yes, Sir.” But knows this is wrong, not what he's looking for. “Yes please,” she manages. And he tells her, “Go for it. Feel free”.
And she's shocked into thinking, “Oh my god, he's expecting me to wank. I can't wank., not in front of him…not what this is about….” Her anxiety and self consciousness flood back to her. The moment passes. She's not sure if she thought it was going to become sexual, if he was going to touch her, and her shock is more to do with the fact that she had thought that, but that isn't what he meant…. He lies on the bed next to her. She settles again, regains her composure, moves to be in physical contact with him. Thanks him. He's smiling at her.
She is very still, subdued. She can feel an ache and numbness with sharp edges to it, in her buttocks. She wants to be still, to absorb, to feel. But somehow can't quite sink. Situation is not right for that. There is this line, of it not being sexual, not being about submission so much as exploration, and that prevents the drift in her head.
He asks her if she wants a drink. No, she doesn't. Time passes. She is still, his arm is wrapped round her, letting her process in her own time. He asks her again if she wants a drink, wouldn't she like a coffee? She realises he's in fact asking her for a drink. “Oh! Sorry, would *you* like a drink?! Sorry!”. And normality resumes.
“Just look in the mirror, go on, go and look and see what you look like,”he says. “You're going to have some pretty hefty bruising.” She steps to the mirror, twists to look at herself. Red and raised areas on both buttocks, angry looking large welted areas. Already purpling. She knows they will darken overnight. She'll be bruised for days. “Just imagine how much more damage there'd be if I hadn't worn gloves” he says. She smiles and fondles herself, admires the marking. She moves to throw some clothes on, just a top and cardigan, so she can pad to the kitchen, make coffee. They go outside for a cigarette.
“What would your neighbours think?” She realises she's stood outside, her top half covered, her lower half clad only in knickers. The penetrating cold of the paving slabs makes her feet ache with numb. But that feels good. Her senses are heightened. She can feel the nicotine, it's making her dizzy and slightly disoriented.
They return to the bedroom, coffees in hand. She perches on the bed, once again unsure of herself. He reaches for various toys. Beautiful toys, handcrafted by him. She's seen them all before, fondled them, admired them. And sat there, quite casually, chatting, he strikes her inner thighs with a long carbon fibre rod. The smarting is painful. She yelps. He does it again. She's still focusing on the conversation. He strikes her again. She squeaks, glares at him, and moves to close her legs. He chuckles. “You really like this don't you?” She glares, squeals at the next blow, closes her legs. But moves to open them again. The pain is welcome. She watches welts materialise, and can see the first signs of bruising. Her mind is split between the conversation they're half engaged in, and processing the hurt. Eventually she pushes away from him. “What shall we try now then?” he asks her. She loves the wand, and it has been a long time since she's experienced it fully. He sees her looking at it.
“Can we use the wand again please?” She has visions of further lines of damage on her skin. Long thin red lines.
“Where shall we use the wand, bum…do you think?” He gives her an evil grin as she shakes her head, knowing how much it would hurt on the bruises. “Oh, okay then,” he says, “let's do your back. She lies on her tummy. He attaches the glass electrode with the metal core, the attachment she knows can be used for branding. She likes this one, her favourite The wand can do anything from tickle to tease, to hurt, to damage. Can reduce her to fits of hysterical giggling, or make her sweat, and scream, and suffer. And she much prefers the pain. And she wants to feel more pain, concentrated pain, not distracted pain where she can't sink into it.
“I know, let's trace your knicker line”. She laughs as he traces the outline of the black clinging fabric. “Oh look, a pimple.” And he zaps that repeatedly. She is giggling. Until he turns the power up.
She can enjoy these sensations now, is relaxed into it. The sting and burn of the wand comforting. Painful but not overly so. She asks afterwards if the power was at maximum. “No, but it soon can be,” she would be told. The wand is followed by him flogging her back. A thuddy massage of blows, again, comforting. Hard enough to knock breath from her lungs on occasion. “We've got a reverse suntan going on here….,” he tells her, running his fingers over a line at the top of her back where the red of the flogged skin borders untouched flesh. She oscillates between moaning in pleasure at the sensation, and laughing with him as the conversation continues in fits and starts.
Time becomes of the essence. She has children to collect. She asks for a cuddle to draw things to a close. They cuddle. She feels relaxed now, endorphins, residual pain, her buttocks that curious numb of sustained trauma. She feels gratitude, relief. He's smiling and happy and she thinks, somewhat surprised “He really enjoyed that.” And that makes her feel happy too.
As she dresses, he strikes her intermittently with a whip. She yelps and tells him to pack it in. They're both laughing. She dances about, trying now to concentrate on other things. Erupting eventually in a “Oh!!! Fucking hell…stop it!!”
He laughs. “You know, I'm not so sure I'm a sadist. More that I've got a fucking warped sense of humour.” Another lash from the whip.
“And I don't think I disagree. Now stop it. I've got to go!”.
And now this…
The morning after.
She removes her top, lifts her skirt to her waist, and peers in the mirror in front of her, carefully aligned with the mirror behind her.
She is covered in scratches. All down her back, lines which are a few inches long, looking like rock strata, a few lines in parallel, another few, at a slightly different angle. One on her front, along her rib cage. She remembers that one. He held a knife to her as he zapped her. She had arched up and away from the electric jab of it, dragging the blade across her own skin.
Her arse is black and blue and purple. She's never seen it this discoloured. She feels the raised and welted areas, pokes them. The renewed stabs of pain feel good. She remembers in bed last night, the pressure on them. She smiles and admires her heavily marked skin. She's thrilled and delighted. Badges of pain endured. It makes her feel good, special, cared for. She realises the irony of this. On a day she will be going to court, surrounded by lawyers, police officers, magistrates. And under the prim and respectable layer of her outer garments, under a conservative bra and knickers, will lie evidence of ABH. Lovingly, caringly inflicted, very much consented to. But actual harm to her body.
She smiles and readjusts her clothing.
| 30 Jan 10, 10:28 AM Caracal UK(SS), 5 yrs      |
A great piece of writing, thank you. What is a Caracal? | |
| 30 Jan 10, 10:34 AM Rhoobarb UK(FK), 12 yrs |
Loved it. Beautifully written, fabulous experience. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ | |
| 30 Jan 10, 11:23 AM El_Presidente UK(G), 4 yrs    |
I really enjoyed that. 9/10
V. Good | |
| 30 Jan 10, 3:02 PM Scribbles UK(RH), 4 yrs |
I really enjoyed this. I like the description of a toy I don't enjoy myself (violet wand), and the atypical kinky relationship, and most of all the observations on expectation and interaction. Thank you  | |
| 30 Jan 10, 3:18 PM stormywaters PT, 4 yrs |
Absolutely brilliant. I especially identify with the studied indifference, the oh so self conscious electrifyingly aware casualness of interlacing sadism with a nice friendly chat. My object all sublime... | |
| 30 Jan 10, 6:54 PM wonderer UK, 5 yrs |
Oh truly amazing. Like the old days of CT weblogs but even more so. I had to skim over places where it seemed that blood might get mentioned (sensitive flower that I am). Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est. http://www.informedconsent.co.uk/posts/226772/ | |
| 30 Jan 10, 6:59 PM Cinnamon_Tart UK(S), 8 yrs |
Thank you for the lovely replies. It was certainly enjoyable in the doing, and it's good if i managed to portray it here in any sort of way that did justice to the experience.
Blood? Blood? Me? Maybe next time.
What we are today comes from our thoughts of yesterday, and our present thoughts build our life of tomorrow: our life is the creation of our mind. (Buddha) | |
| 30 Jan 10, 8:49 PM knot_obsessed UK(NN), 6 yrs |
All i can say is  it sounds like fun! hugs xAn eye for eye only ends up making the whole world blind. - Mahatma Gandhi "Build a man a fire, and he'll be warm for a day. Set a man on fire, and he'll be warm for the rest of his life." - Terry Pratchett. | |
| 3 Feb 10, 5:15 PM mammon UK(B), 10 yrs |
As I've said before - you write very well.
And although I don't possess the jealousy gene, I confess I am rather envious of him K xx "They who would give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety." Benjamin Franklin | |
| 4 Feb 10, 5:25 PM Cinnamon_Tart UK(S), 8 yrs |
And both those comments, coming from you, made me smile very much. Thank you. xxx What we are today comes from our thoughts of yesterday, and our present thoughts build our life of tomorrow: our life is the creation of our mind. (Buddha) |
