He had me opened up completely. I was on the bench with my legs in a set of makeshift stirrups made from cuffs and attached to a spreader bar which was suspended above me on the ceiling hook. I didn’t want to think about how I looked. It was more than I could bear, and so I didn’t. I closed my eyes and felt my legs swinging precariously and focussed on the freedom of movement they had. I didn’t let the image of my nakedness enter my head. I didn’t look at the reflection of myself spread out and offered in the glass next to me. Instead, I did what I do, and I focussed on the feelings I got.
It is an odd situation where your kink is humiliation but you avoid embracing it. I could have made so much more of it if I wanted to, but something stops me. A self-preservation. I don’t do that to myself. Why would I? Allowing him that power over me is as far as I go. I am a masochist but not a sadist. I hand him the keys and wait. I wait in my own little world for him to slowly pull it apart. And while I wait for that, I fight it, holding onto the last few shreds of myself as they are slowly peeled away. And it comes of course. It always comes.
“God you are exposed in this position. I can see everything. I can even see inside you.”
And there it is. My reality. As the feeling of his touch on my skin continue and I focus on them, what he has said he sees flits in and out of my mind, eyes still tightly shut. I push it away, determined. No fear that I will have to face what I am for him.
The lube is cold as it lands, sits, and then trickles slowly downwards, resting in the cracks and crevices and valleys of my body. I know what is coming.
“You know what is coming, don’t you missy?”
I do know what is coming, so I murmur, and I take it. He should make me say it really. He should make me ask or tell him what I am, but he doesn’t.
“Push down now. It is only small so it won’t be difficult for you to take.”
His words make me curl and there is a slight mental struggle as my body gives in and the thing is sucked suddenly inside me; the word greedy floats past, painted in large black capitals on a white piece of paper, for everyone to see. I have chosen to allow myself to be displayed in this way. I have agreed willingly to play like this. And so despite my struggle, despite my resistance to accept, underneath I know that I want this and so does he.
Butt plug in, my picture grows more detailed. I see the stopper drawing the eye with it’s bright colour – something which should not be there. I am on my back on the bench, naked. My legs are high above me, slightly bent at the knee, my ankles resting in the sling cuffs. The cuffs are attached to each end of the wide bar which means that my legs are as widely open as they can be, whilst still being comfortable. Comfort is important to him. The rope which holds the cuffs to the bar is taut, so that my bum is lifted slightly off the bench with the tension, and the pink plug advertises the fact that I am the sort of person who is happy to have things inserted into them in this way.
“God, you look sexy like this. And you are so wet that I can see it glistening.”
He puts his finger inside me which only adds to the wetness. He gasps in a breath, theatrically, and then comments that it is dripping out of me now. I am still fighting with accepting this is what I am but a closeup picture of a droplet forming, and then working its way down into the crack of my arse where I can feel it, forms in my mind. My eyes are still firmly shut and I am disappearing into myself, or outside of myself. Anywhere that I can not deal with the crudity of how this must look. I try to normalise it, down play it, its not the first time and it won’t be the last, and then from nowhere, I feel the brush of his cane against my leg.
Surely he isn’t?
“I am going to use the cane on you now. It has been a while.”
I can’t quite get my head around how this will work. I am lying on my back and am totally opened up for him to view as he sits there, cane in hand, between my legs, bent and bound. But it does work, of course. If I had asked to see, or asked at all, I might have corrected my internal image, but I am on receive. My imagination absorbs what sense I can make and I pieces things together from there. As the cane meets my skin, I am taking what he gives and absorbing what he does, for him, and for me. He covers more of my cheeks than I would have imagined possible from this angle and he also taps the inside of my thighs, exposed and available, suspended and waiting for the impact. It slices and stings and it makes me want more.
He catches my clit with some gentler blows which can’t have been incidental. The voice in my head articulates the facts, and I have to accept that I am aching for his cane in these places. He taps the outside of the plug firmly with his cane; it echoes inside me and I clench my muscles to drink it in. I feel thoroughly wrong and I don’t care. I feel dirty and insatiable and as if my own pleasure is something I will get drunk on. My inhibitions are leaving me and I am embracing the way I am feeling. I care little for what anyone thinks or for how I look. He has got the wand and it is on my clit and I am pushing into it wantonly. I can see flashes of the picture that I have become and I feel defiant about them as I moan and buck, seeking more pleasure.
He toys with me for a bit, holding me on the crisis of my orgasm, and I teeter there wondering whether I should go forward or back and not wanting to do anything but hang here in this moment. I would agree to anything at this point and just want to be ripped apart by the way that I feel. My orgasm rocks over me and when it is done he releases the pressure and the spasms come and come and come in little bursts of aftershock. He has freed my legs and they have flopped uselessly back next to me. I want him to fuck me hard and make me hurt with the force of him.
“Onto all fours!” his voice, as if reading my mind.
And he is on me and in me, thrusting in a way which makes me wonder if I can take it or not. But I do, and he does. I give him myself and he takes everything from me and more. He is high on the moment and on the way that he has made me. He enjoys his win and I feel his body claiming mine in a picture I have long since ceased to be able to piece together. Then in the fog I feel a shift, and I know that he is close. I wait and I wait and very gradually he lets go, becoming more vulnerable towards that moment where he finally loses control and gives over to his own orgasm. He uses his words again then, to make it his, and in doing so stays just where he needs to be. I remain in position, not moving, opened.