Just Another Day

NOTE: This post contains explicit sexual imagery and descriptions of BDSM play.

I’m sick with a chest cold, and exhausted, and stressed out by the job I just started two weeks ago, and I’ve been having a really hard time making space for the more enjoyable activities in my life, say, sex and writing. Now I have about six different entries I want to write on here, but they’re all rather complicated. Instead, I think I’d just like to write about the lovely evening I had last night.

We were cuddled up on the couch together when he suddenly started pinching my sides—often a good gauge of whether or not I’m interested in playing. I didn’t move away, but let him twist the flesh, digging his nails in. My breath came faster, and I must have let out a sigh. He moved my hand to his pants; he was hard already. He unzipped them with one hand, the other remaining firmly attached to my side, and placed my hand on his cock. I stroked it until he released me, telling me to go down on him.

For a minute, I felt that all I wanted to do for the rest of my life was to suck his cock, feeling him filling my mouth, his hips pushing forward so that he reached my throat. But he eventually pulled me off, and unbuckled my belt, pulling it out from the loops on my pants. “Go to my room,” he said. “Wait there for me.”

I waited in his room, standing, still fully clothed. He came in with the belt in his hands. “Bend over the bed.” I put my palms on the bed and bent over, keeping my head up. He undid my pants and pulled them down, loosely bunched around my shoes. He took his time sliding my underwear down, caressing my ass softly.

He didn’t tell me before striking the first blow, but I had, of course, already been anticipating it. He thrashed my legs and ass with the belt for a minute, but suddenly decided he wanted to fuck me, throwing the belt casually on the bed as he unzipped his own pants and roughly thrust into me. He pushed me forward, forcing me to crawl further onto the bed, on hands and knees. He picked the belt back up, and pulled it around my throat, looping it through the buckle and pulling it until it was slightly choking me. He slowed his rhythm for a minute, and said, “take a deep breath.” I breathed in, and he tightened his grip as he thrust even harder into me. “Breath out,” he said, releasing the belt-leash slightly, and I exhaled.

He continued with the belt around my neck for a while, but then abruptly removed it. I whimpered, a little. “I don’t want to leave any marks on your neck,” he explained. I nodded. We were meeting with friends later in the evening.

He studied me for a minute. “Lift your arms.” I did, and he pulled my shirt over my head, but left my arms in the armholes. The fabric stratched taut against my neck, and a slight tug against it made it very difficult to breathe. He let go, and leaned in close to me. “If you begin to feel faint, or want to stop for any reason, I want you to do this.” He pounded a fist into the mattress, twice. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Good. Now take a deep breath.” He waited for me to inhale, then tightened the shirt. A moment later, I felt the belt on my ass again, harder. He had never restricted my breathing in combination with a spanking; each blow felt more intense, yet easier to endure. He stopped to allow me to breath normally, and then started up again. The third time, I began to see stars, and signalled. He immediately stopped, loosened my shirt, and placed the belt gently across my back. “Good,” he said, stroking my head. He moved to the edge of the bed to take his boots off. “I want you on the floor, in a minute,” he said as he untied the laces. “Do you want to be on the ground in front of me?”

He knew that it was a rhetorical question, of course. “Yes,” I answered.

“Get down there. Now.” I scrambled to the foot of the bed and crawled onto the floor. “Face down, facing me,” he said. I obeyed. I felt his cold foot on my back, and shivered. “Cold, isn’t it,” he said. He placed the other one against my side, warming his feet on my skin. He stood up on the floor, and stepped over to one side of me. “I’m going to kick you,” he said, “and then I’m going to fuck you some more. Then I’m going to jerk off, and you’re going to take me in your mouth when I come. Do you understand?” I told him I did. “Good.” He kicked me with the side of his foot, lightly, then a little harder with the other foot. The blows of his foot hard into my ass cheeks felt entirely unlike being spanked; this felt heavier, in some ways, but not as painful. Every blow felt good, like being fucked. I suddenly had an image of what I must look like to him, my half-naked body with pants roughly pushed down and shirt hanging off my neck, face down on the floor. The world melted away, and I lost myself within the sensation of being kicked, again and again. I knew that in a few minutes, he would come, and then he would allow me to come, and we would cuddle next to each other in bed, warm and happy and content. But right now I was cold and alone on the ground, under his cruel foot, and there was nowhere else I would rather be.

3 comments so far

  1. Lindsay on

    Sometimes, I have to remind myself that belts can also be used to hold pants up. I just meandered over to your blog, and am favoriting the crap out of you right now. Yay!

  2. shiva on

    Wow. I think that’s the first M/f thing i’ve ever read that didn’t squick me out…

  3. subversive_sub on

    Thanks, Shiva! I like your blog, by the way…anarchist anti-psych feminists are always welcome around here. 🙂

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