There’s a beam in our bedroom; sturdy, built to last, Victorian. I’ve often thought that, if there was even the smallest scintilla of a smidgin of an ounce of kink in our relationship, I’d use a couple of belts to tie her to that beam and work her over. I’d work her over until her body was a mass of sensations, pain and pleasure fighting for supremacy. I’d work her over until her orgasms were tumbling over each other. I’d work her over until she was a gasping, sweaty mess and then I’d carry her to the bed and fuck her back to me.
Or maybe, because, as we all know, I’m wired the other way too, I’d hand her the heavy flogger, the one we’d keep in a suitcase under the bed, and have her do the same to me.
Unfortunately neither of these scenarios is likely, but most of the time I like my life as it is. In this older post, I thought about other things I’d do if my relationship accommodated my kinks.
More sin here: