Pushed Further

His vice like grip on my nipples – pulling and twisting and squeezing – made me cry aloud forgetting to cry into the pillow so the neighbors wouldn’t complain.  I squirmed and wiggled and try to pull away – trying to take the nipples away from his grip.

“Oh you think that’ll work, do you?”  He asked his hypothetical question as he used his cane – the whippy fucker that I both love and hate – and brought it down on my ass over and over again as he pulled hard on the nipple he had.  I cried aloud – my hair falling into my face as the tears came into my eyes.

I was unable to catch my breath as that pain drifted from the good side to slightly past to the bad side – but walked enough of that line that it caused conflict – could I get through it until he released me?

He finally paused as he could tell my breathing had changed.  He held me close as I let the tears fall and regained control over my pain processing again.  He stroked my hair.  He kissed my forehead, but he tsked.  He tsked because he knew it would fuck with me as I tried to sort out what he was tsking about – what had I done wrong.

In this case, I knew.  I kept my nipples from him. I fought against it. But in the end, he still got what he sought after – and that was my punishment – that he got what he wanted – so now it was really going to hurt.

After I caught my breath, I resumed the position pulling the pillow under my head again so I could cry into it.  He tsked again.  “You weren’t counting, so I guess we have to start over.”

Fuck.

He swapped out the whippy fucker for the regular cane.  I fought all my urges to count each practice stroke as he lined up where he wanted to hit my ass.  The smart ass response was kept at bay as I reminded myself that he has worse things up his sleeve if I did it.  Then the first strike landed.

ONE – FUCK!

I wiggled and squirm as I could find the cane mark swell into the red ridge that I knew was there.  The influx of blood into that spot made it ache.  And moving simply helped me get through it.  Until the next one…..WHACK.  “TWO” I eeked out.  This one hurt and I shifted around.  But the third and fourth found my ass in quick succession.

This went until he paused asking “did you bring your butt plug?”

I told him where it was, he told me to stay put, and he went to get it.  I could hear more moving around the room, then I felt the plug at the entrance of my ass.  He shoved it into my ass without much warning.  Then gave it an extra push to make sure it was fully inserted.

“There” was all he said, then I felt the cane touching my ass again.

He resumed the rhythm of his strikes and I resumed my counting.

“Fifty” I would say, and he would inform me that only 950 left for me to take.  He had told me it would be 1000 strikes.  I knew he was joking – or I hoped he was joking, rather.

Occasionally, he would shove the plug deep into my ass with one hand as he caned my ass with the other.  The mix of sensations – my ass being forced open by that plug while the cane caused that white hot pain for a moment until it hit a dull ache.  As the endorphins kicked into overdrive, the pain turned into pleasure more quickly – and the wiggling wasn’t as necessary – until he put a bit more force behind the strike making me wiggle again.

Then he would switch back to that whippy fucker.  That small PolyEthylen cane always felt like it was cutting into my skin given how small in diameter it is compared to the rattan cane.  And when it found a cane mark caused by the rattan cane, the pain was even worse.  I couldn’t help but move and cry and wiggle.  And in that moment, he would take advantage and grab my nipple to pull and squeeze.  I had to resist my urge to wiggle away – to protect it from that pain – knowing it would only be worse if I did.

I kept counting as he would strike.  Sixty, sixty one, sixty two – then he’d shove that plug into my ass hard.  Sixty-three, sixty-four….my cries were muffled by the pillow.  Sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven……I breathed hard as I tried to keep up with the quick stripes.  Sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy…..his hand was on the plug again…..seventy-one, seventy-two…..I was done.

I sat up, I shook my head, I couldn’t take anymore – that whippy fucker had taken too much out of me….I was done.  The tears were back in my eyes – my breathing was ragged – I was just done.

He put down his cane and held me.  He let me ride the wave until I was back to where I could communicate.  I leaned into him as he comforted me.  “We are done” he declared.

He put me back in position, removed the plug, cleaned me up, gave me water, then tucked me into bed.   He put the toys away.  Undressed, and crawled into bed with me and wrapped himself around me.  “This is only aftercare, so we can get up anytime you are ready.”  And he kissed me gently, stroked my body – and let me come down.  Until I was giggling and wiggling from his strokes – and I could see his smile shining in the dark as he enjoyed it all.

During this aftercare, he reminded me that he would get his pleasure later.  Oh, I knew he would.  And I knew if things went as usual, that I would be crying into a pillow and his tears would only feed him. Then he would take me further and higher.

This is one of the things I love about our connection – our relationship – that we can push things and I trust him to take me to a place that is not bad but where I need to go.

I have a very mean, sadistic Daddy.

Thank the universe for that!

What do you think?

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