She’s got me standing, facing her, my back pushed against the hard metal and leather of the flogging frame. Minutes earlier, facing the other way, I was being flogged and my skin is now alive with sensation. The only thing I’m wearing is a thin cord, tied tight round the base of my cock and my balls. It sort of hurts. In a good way.
She’s close, filling my vision with her glorious body, all sleekness, grace and strength.
She’s working me over: a slap on the face; a long, painful dig into my nipples; then she leans the hard bone of her elbow into my throat until I can’t breathe. She holds it there, looking into my eyes, waiting for the moment when they roll back in their sockets. Then her hands are round my cock, sliding the tight skin backwards and forwards over the hard shaft until I’m moaning with the almost painful ecstasy of it.
She digs into my nipples again, harder this time, making me cry out, escalating, always escalating; escalating till weeks of stress and tension are forced out of my head to make room for the pain, to make room for the sensations, to make room for her.
But it’s not all about the pain because she’s got me in a place I haven’t been before. I often feel desperate, begging wants in a session but, in my self-centred way, they’re usually about me. What I’m wanting for normally is more; more sensations, more intensity, more of everything so I can go deeper, immersing myself in hedonistic pleasure.
This is different. I’m wanting alright. But I want her.
I fucking want all of her.
I want to bury my face in her hair. I want my body pressed hard against hers. I want to feel my hands on her beautiful arse, pulling her onto me while my teeth dig into her nipples or bite on her lips; they’re enticingly just inches in front of my mouth as she leans on my throat.
I want the cool of her skin to rub up against the heat of mine.
My cock is hard; it’s hard like a stick of sea-side rock; it’s hard like a ceramic dildo and it’s throbbing against the tight, tight cord. The touch of her fingers round it isn’t nearly enough; I want it inside her, thrusting myself deep into her core until we both come. I want to lose myself in her.
God, I want her so fucking much.
I want her so much my whole body is straining forward against the straps holding me to the frame, furiously determined to break free and get to her. I’m fighting the restraints, shaking and tugging and pulling against them in my desperate need to hold my body against hers.
In my desperate need to have her.
But here’s the thing. There were no straps.
There were no ropes, no chains, no karabiners or clips.
To answer that aching need to join our bodies, all I had to do was to let go my vice like grip on the frame and reach behind her back. I was held there only by my knowledge of where the line is drawn, my knowledge of how the game is played; my desire not to spoil a moment of coruscating, visceral, erotic intensity. I held on like a drowning man to a raft, knowing that if I let go I was lost.
Elita plays this kind of game with lots of men – her Twitter bio says “I will delight in making you want me so much that you can’t stand it.” I’d thought I was immune from that threat; not immune exactly, it would be an unusual hetero or bi-sexual person who didn’t find Elita enticing but, with my self centred focus on the sensations she is causing rather than on her, I had thought it was directed at others.
I now find, after playing with Elita for nearly two years, that it was directed, very precisely, at me.
This earlier post gives an idea why I needed this session so much and how ready I was for it!