This post delves into Ruby the sadist - skip it if you'd rather not learn more about that side of me.
Tonight I am once again planning what I want to happen when Mr. Great Kisser and I get together. Planning is like one big personalized sexual fantasy - I've talked about that. I plan and I'm wet. My fingers enjoy playing with that wetness.
This is the first time I've been with a partner who enjoys impact play quite the way Mr. Great Kisser does. He's so vocal about it. But not in a whiny little boy getting a whipping kind of voice. There is nothing feminine or little-boyish about the way this man takes the crop. He bears it gladly, craves it, sinks into the experience deeply. Oozing masculinity. Even with sweat dripping off his forehead, his body limp with fatigue and his ass on fire, he's all man.
He wants the pain and takes it. Occasionally giving me a number for my own edification. When he says 3 he's letting me know how much more he can take, should I decide to dish it out. When he says 8 or 9 he's letting me know how close he is to his limit, should I decide to push that limit.
A moment that thrills: I am taking care to discern exactly where we are in terms of his ability and desire for more, because they are not always perfectly aligned. Can he take more or are we finished? So I snap my crop against his ass very sharply and hear him gasp.
And then say, "Yes! Oh Fuck Yes!"
I watch his back arch to offer his ass for more. And I redraw my lines. The lines that keep him safe. The lines that give him what he wants. And what I want, too. I snap my crop three more times, leaving marks he'll feel and see for 2 days after we part.
He'll remember them every time he sits down. And he'll smile.
