Posts tagged ‘face slapping’

We interrupt this philosophical discussion for more kink

I’ve been working on that godawful third part of my clever little essay for frickin’ ever.

In the meantime, may I present to you my morning:

5:45 am: Wake up. Kitty purring next to my face, sitting very patiently. Go back to sleep.

6:00 am: Progressive alarm clock starts chirping at me. Lay and listen to it for a few minute. Hit the snooze bar.

6:20 am: Alarm clock screams at me. Kitty purring politely butts her head to get under the covers with me.

6:45 am: I turn off the alarm. Kitty doing tap dances on my head. I contemplate getting up, then roll over onto my back in the exact center of my expensive, memory-foam, Queen-size bed. Overtaken by luxury, I close my eyes.

6:50 am: Swim up from half-sleep. Contemplate putting feet onto floor and kettle onto stove. Decide to wait until 7am.

7:00 am (precisely): Houseboy rings bell. I climb out of bed, pad downstairs in bare feet and pyjamas to let him in. Set him to work cleaning the bathroom. Put on the kettle and feed the cat.

7:30 am: After much stumbling around with frequent stops in to supervise houseboy, manage to get breakfast on table.

7:45 am: Houseboy tells me he is done with the bathroom. I tell him to wash the dishes in the sink. Write my morning pages, work on my interminable fourth step.

8:00 am: Houseboy finishes the dishes. I tell him to clear the table and wash up the breakfast dishes. Go get dressed. Choose the plaid skirt and brown tights that go so well with the high brown boots.

8:15 am: Hand houseboy my boots and tell him to go kneel in the living room. Wash my face and brush my hair in my sparkling clean bathroom.

8:20 am: Pull houseboy over my knees and give him the spanking of his life. Tell him it turns me on when I hurt him. Hand him my boots and have him put them on while I read him some poetry. He runs his hand up my calf before zipping them up, clearly not by accident.

“Are they clean enough?” I ask.
“No, ma’am.”
“Then clean them.”

This is the first time he’s licked my boots. He does an excellent job. It’s the best boot-licking I’ve had in years. Did you know that your boots actually do shine when someone licks them thoroughly and well? It’s better than polish. I walk around him to give him the best angle on all sides. The only thing that would make it sexier is if he were totally naked and on all fours under me. I pull my skirt aside to watch him. When he licks my instep, I feel that old familiar thrill, dulled through the shoe leather.

I have him get on his back, put the sole of my boot across his face. Press it against his solar plexus, tell him that if I bore down on him with all my weight I would probably break his ribs. Rub the sole of my boot across his hard-on. Lean over and spit on his face — with terrible aim, most of it ends up on the floor. Drink a glass of water and try again. Pull up his t-shirt and pinch his nipples, hard. Spit on his face some more, rub it in, slap him around a bit. Grab him by his hair and pull him to his knees, pressing his face into my belly.

Step away and tell him to get dressed.

I was supposed to drop him off at the T, but he gladly walks. I pack my lunch, send a few emails, and leave for work.

I’ve been having trouble getting out of bed on time. What a little gift of the universe to help me out of bed on a Friday.

Plus, shiny bathroom floor.

March 7, 2008 at 8:09 pm 6 comments

I love it when you call me ma’am (Pt 1 of 2)

I slap your face and it changes. You go to that other place, the place where I can tell you to take your clothes off and you will, without hesitation. You grab the collar of your T-shirt and pull it over your head, unbuckle your belt, step out of your jeans and place them next to me on the couch.

-All of them, I tell you, and you look at me a question. We haven’t been naked together before. You haven’t been inside of me. You’ve never seen me with my pants off. Right now, I am fully clothed. But that’s the point. I want you naked in front of me, naked and on your knees. I know you’re eager to get there yourself, and that, in part, is what makes me hot. Hot, and scared. What do I do next? I wonder, as you look up at me, good boy, so naked and low and ready for me to do whatever I want to you.

Am I doing it right? I wonder, as I pull your belt from your pants, throw it across the room.

Earlier today, I told you I was going to beat you with your own belt, make you crawl naked across the room to pick it up and bring it back to me in your mouth. That is so sexy, you said, and even through the keyboard and the screen I felt the heat rising through my own body, a slow boil, my body burning and aroused and all alone on a chair before a computer. Yes. Yes it is, I said.

And now I’ve got your hair in my hands and I’m pulling your mouth toward my own, your mouth so eager and ready, so open and ready to please.

I pull you forward between my opened knees, your bare shoulders touching my thighs beneath my skirt, and I’ve got my hands on your back, and I’m raking my nails across your shoulders, up from your waist to your neck, and you make that noise, a hiss of inhaled breath and a moan together.

– Go get your belt, I say, and I don’t have to tell you to do it on your hands and knees. You crawl across the room to where I’ve thrown it and you pick it up with your teeth, carry it back to me, still with that look in your eyes that tells me you’re in that other place.

I take the belt from you.

-Good boy.
-Thank you. You say it with relief, the release of desire.

I should push you backward now, turn you to the side and stand above you so that I have the proper angle for the belt. But I like the feel of your bare skin against my thighs, your naked back stretched out before me like a promise and your head in my lap, where it belongs.

I slap the belt across your back, not particularly hard, but you cry out, and again that moment of fear — you’re not doing it right, he’s had better, it’s not good enough, you’re inept, you’re a terrible top, it’s no good — but I put that aside, push it down because there’s a wave that will carry me if I just keep going. You’re not a blank slate, you’re alive and so am I and what we are doing is perverted and wrong, but it brings us so much joy, so maybe it isn’t really.

So I beat you with your own belt, just like I promised you I would. I do it badly, ineptly, and you still like it. I put you over my knee, and with you over my knee I can’t resist spanking you with my open palm. I’m so wound up I smack you hard, very hard, and your reaction makes me realize it’s causing you pain, not the good kind of pain.

-Whoa, you say. You really go right to it.
-I’m sorry. I know I’m supposed to warm you up first (and here I slap your bum lightly, repeatedly, delicious, remembering the delicious feel myself, how it softens you up, makes the nerve endings ready for the big, hard slaps to follow).

-But may it’s not about your pleasure, I say. Maybe it’s about what I want.

You moan as I say all this, and I’m spanking you at the same time, building up from soft to hard and then running my fingers over your warmed skin. That light touch on my own skin, red and warm and sentitized, always drives me wild.

-It was very selfish of you to think that this is about you, to expect me to be serving you, I say, and I’ve got your belt, and I’m using it on your back and you begin to undulate across my knee.

-I’m sorry.
-Why are you sorry?
-For being selfish, ma’am.

I love it when you call me ma’am.

>> NEXT: What do you feel when I slap you?>>

January 23, 2008 at 8:11 pm 4 comments


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