ME(some weeks ago): Elita? I think I might, just possibly, if, and only if, you fancied it, be approaching the stage where I could, perhaps, at some point in the future be ready to at least start to consider another session with Him. (The apparent reticence in the way I put this comes from the fact that anything involving him is going to stretch me to the edge of my endurance and possibly beyond, and the uncomfortable knowledge that I am effectively asking Elita if she would take a beating with me).
ELITA: Great! I’m totally up for that! Let’s do it soon! Let’s make it hard!
Which is how the three of us came to be in The Bunker, a rental dungeon space in an old underground hideaway, Elita and I contemplating a table laden with corporal punishment implements. These were challenging corporal punishment implements, the sort that come from Fetters or Fifty and Dean, not the sort that come from Anne Somers or Love Honey. There were straps, whips, floggers and, inevitably, canes.
The game they’d invented was complex. Or perhaps my fear-filled brain didn’t have room for its many permutations. It involved a coin toss to decide who chose the implement and a dice throw to decide the number of strokes (always double the number on the dice – obviously, I mean six strokes? Pffftt!). There was a music playlist on shuffle that included two classical pieces that could appear at any time, triggering even higher levels of challenge. Oh yes; and each of us would have a single opportunity to select a “something nice” option for the other. See? Simple game!
And so it began, each of us taking turns. Different positions, different implements, different number of strokes. Always though, I was watching her strokes, as she was watching mine; sometimes I’d stand back, seeing the cane bite into her beautiful bottom, watching with both sadistic and sympathetic delight; sometimes we’d be face to face so I could see the pain of it in her eyes, or show her the pain of it in mine. We stood side by side, close, while he whipped us alternately in time to Debussy, sharing each other’s sensations, sharing each other’s reactions, soaking it all up together; a team, us against him.
It was incredibly intense.
But, perhaps surprisingly, it was also incredibly fun!
Waaat? Heavy CP with a man? Fun? Surely not!
Elita was giggling, as she does when she’s nervous, and it was infectious; we’d get the game wrong, forgetting who was supposed to call heads or tails; we’d give exaggerated cries of relief when the dice came down with a one (usually for me), exaggerated cries of horror when it came down with a six (usually for Elita); he tried to maintain the appropriately stern, “Domly Dom” visage, but even he had to laugh occasionally.
Standing next to Elita in front of the table, winding each other up while her man decided between the two tailed whip and the cane, this didn’t feel like punishment and it certainly didn’t feel like a service I’d paid for. It wasn’t even particularly D/s; it was three people letting their kinks out and, yes, having fun. As the images show, it wasn’t that he was taking it easy, but the harder it became, the stronger the high we were on, and the more rapidly the sense of relief after each challenge seemed to translate into light-hearted jollity. It was quite unlike other sessions we have had together.
Near the end, I chose the “something nice” option for Elita that turned out to be just as much “something nice” for me. Elita was told to lay on the table while I massaged her bottom! There’s a Sinful Sunday post coming up about that. It was wonderfully intimate and erotic.
Elita finally managed to guess a coin toss right (she had been doing badly all evening) and had the chance to choose “something nice” for me. I found myself tied to a sex sling, my legs in the air. I was blindfolded and feeling exposed. I could sense four hands. There was one working on each nipple, squeezing, pulling and twisting, sending rivers of exquisite, beautiful pain though me. One hand was tight round my balls, tugging at them insistently then massaging my hardening cock while the final hand inserted at least one gloved finger into my arse, sliding it in and out, setting up new rushes of unexpected and intense sensation. I was slipping into sensory overload, closing in on an orgasm.
As a heterosexual male, who had never been penetrated by a man, the obvious question in my head was “which hands belong to whom?” I can’t say for sure but I do know this: the hands working on my nipples were the ones with the long finger nails!
But, hey! I was good with all of it.