One of the things I love about kink is the challenge of it, when it’s hard. Being pushed within boundaries by a dominant and feeling that rush of knowing you took something hard. Today’s incredible guest blog, by Komplicated Kitty, is exactly that – a gloriously hot, intense kink scene which made me feel like I was being pushed along with the author. And hurt, satisfied, whipped, beaten, nudged… it’s glorious.
Bring it, babe! I mean… please Sir, may I have some more?
I want to be pushed right up to my limit. I want to know I’ve reached the absolute point where I can’t tolerate another thing for another second, and I want him to take me there.
He and I talk about this. I explain it to him in the best way I can, and he understands because he knows me well. He knows I crave intensity, and that I’ve gone searching for it my entire life. I need the adrenaline rush, the thrill.
He also knows I crave his dominance. The sting of the crop, the belt, his hand. Full surrender. Mine to give. His to take. I want his marks on my body. I want to know he owns me.
He has struggled with hurting me, his beloved wife, who is also now his submissive. But the more he trusts that I truly want this, need it even, the more he is willing to take his own pleasure in it. The more he revels in his sadism.
So here we are, alone. It’s such a rare thing these days that it takes us a few minutes to realize it. When the meaning of the silence sinks in, we notice it at the same time. He pins me with his gaze.
“Go downstairs and strip. Kneel by the bed.”
My pulse kicks up. Anxiety, excitement, and that deep desire to submit flow through me. I rush down the stairs, throwing my clothes off enthusiastically. I hear him laugh behind me.
I wait, as instructed. Head down, naked, still, but alert. He enjoys making me wait, a reminder that things happen in his time, not mine. The technique is effective. Anticipation heightens my arousal. The knowledge that I am at his mercy makes me wet.
When he enters the room, I peek at him. His face is thoughtful and intense. He looks from me to the closet and back again, determining my fate. I sense a difference in him, a certain resolve I recognize in his demeanour because I know him so well.
“Put your hair up and kneel on the bed,” he orders.
The cold metal of the collar against my neck sends a chill down my spine. Nipple clamps are already attached to the ring. As soon as the collar is locked around my neck, he pinches my nipples. When he affixes the clamps carefully and tightens the screws, bit by bit, my eyes water.
“Breathe,” he instructs.
I exhale and absorb the white hot pain.
“Get on your hands and knees.”
Groaning, I move cautiously, trying desperately to keep the chains from swaying.
“Don’t touch the clamps, and don’t move from this position.”
The spreader bar is next, holding my legs just wide enough apart that I feel exposed and vulnerable.
He tosses the flogger, crop, and leather belt onto the bed next to me, wanting me to see what’s coming next.
Kneeling on the bed, he whispers in my ear. “You wanted me to push you, to take you somewhere new. That’s happening now. You may not move. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“No blindfold. No gag,” he says, and I know it’s so he can better observe exactly where I am at every second. This makes me feel both cared for and apprehensive at the same time. It means he will not go easy on me.
He warms my bottom with his hand first, rhythmic slaps applied equally to each side, becoming sharper and harder with each round. The clamps jingle, tugging at my nipples, immediately ramping up the intensity of the pain.
“So nice and red,” he says, admiring his handiwork and running a gentle hand over my ass cheeks.
Apparently satisfied with the color, he moves on to the crop. He’s become masterful with the crop, applying stinging whacks to exactly the same spot over and over again, first one side then the other.
I try to escape out of his reach and my belly hits the bed. The crop comes down hard on the bottom of my feet, once, twice. I scream in protest.
“Get back up,” he growls.
I move into position, moaning my objection. My feet are on fire. They are almost on my hard limit list. Almost.
He hits me ten or so more times on each ass cheek with the crop, still using the same technique. I’m sure bruises will bloom by tomorrow.
Tossing the crop aside he picks up the flogger, gently swatting my back and thighs to start. The swishing sound is comforting, mesmerizing. The impact doesn’t make my aching breasts sway as much.
But he doesn’t hold back for long, and soon the lashes bite into my flesh. The tendrils of the flogger curl around my thighs, sending streaks of pain shooting up my body.
When he finishes with the flogger, he runs his hand up my spine. I’m sweating now, shaking with exertion from holding myself up and from trying to process the pain. I whimper and pant. He grips my hair and turns my head to look at my face.
In his eyes I see concern, assessment, but also pleasure. His pleasure is my pleasure. This is the dark magic of the power exchange, of the sadist and the masochist, of the Dominant and the submissive.
I want to endure more, for him and for me. I want to leap off the cliff. He gives me a nearly imperceptible nod and picks up the belt.
By this time, my body is in sensory overload. I barely register the pain, but my hearing is amplified. Swish. Snap. The belt cracks against my bottom so hard I rock forward, then immediately correct my position. My head hangs, my limbs feel like Jello. Sweat and tears flow. It’s fucking bliss, but I am done for.
I don’t have to say a word. Everything stops. With gentle hands, he unbuckles the bar and pushes it aside.
“Good girl. So beautiful. Look at that beautiful ass.” His praise melts me. I can feel his erection pressing into me. I want to give him more, satisfy him more, but he shakes his head.
“You’ve taken enough. Kneel up.” He has to remove the clamps. This pushes me over the edge, and I start to cry in earnest, something I’ve never done before during play.
Gently, quickly they are off. He pulls me into his arms and holds me as I fall apart. The catharsis of the moment is pure, my high better than any drug.
We lay together for a long time.
“That was another level,” he says. “Are you okay?”
“You have no idea,” I answer smiling.
“I think I do,” he says.
1 Comment
This was a very good piece, and I’d love to read (and hear?) more from Kitty! There was an excellent balance of intimacy and intensity here, and while both would have worked individually, the two in combination were magic! Thank you for sharing!