He had commented soon after we got up that play was in our future. Would I be interested? I think so, I said – feeling a big hung over, a bit dehydrated, and a bit hormonal. Truth be told, I was fucking craving a beating. But moods and lack of sleep simply meant that other things were more important than what I had been craving.
So after some coffee, some talking, lots of water, some ibuprofen, we went into the bedroom. I arranged the pillows on the edge of the bed before I turned to him. He pulled me in for a kiss – and I leaned into it – his mouth devouring mine – and mine his – then his mouth moving to my neck where his teeth sinking into my flesh almost caused me to leave a wet spot right there on the rug. “You might want to get the towel”, I commented He chuckled it was a good idea and went to get it a I bent over the edge of the bed.
“Fred missed you. But I know what you need.”
I heard him open his closet door – I was assuming he was getting his flogger – maybe a cane or two. Then I felt it hit me – the flogger.
He had turned on the music so his neighbors couldn’t be sure what they were hearing. Peter Gabriel – a good choice. His flogging matched the music as I danced with it – with his flogger striking my skin. “Oh, baby” he exclaimed as our energies rose – mine to meet his – his to meet mine. A dance between sadist and masochist – a flogger and floggee. He struck me harder and harder, then would stroke my skin – assessing how warm I was – adding to the pleasure by adding an alternate feeling to the mix. And I danced. And I swayed. And I moaned.
He commented along the way how this felt so good – felt so right. And I concurred. It was not what I needed – it was what he needed that I felt. And it was like a gift I could give him. To take it from him. To let him strike me over and over again. The pleasure was secondary for me. Feeling him get high – feeling his hands on me – feeling his energy rise…..I wanted to give it to him – and I could……so I did.
The flogger was replaced by the paddle. The paddle was replaced by canes. The canes were replaced by an even more serious paddle. And i took it. I wanted it. I craved it. But I wanted to give him what he needed more. At one point, that paddle I usually cursed felt like his hands – I was so in the endorphin space that all I felt was energy – energy into me – energy feeding him. It was truly bliss.
Don’t get me wrong; while I wanted him to get his needs met, I got my own met too. But what fed me more was how much he was getting out it – how much he needed it – and how happy I was that I could give it. I wasn’t taking one for the team – I was in a space, a happy space, where I could give it so I gave it happily. It felt like I was giving him a gift. He was giving me marks and pleasure – and my body was reacting. And I was getting off more on the fact he was getting what he needed.
It’s not something easily understood by those who don’t know the relationship like ours. Who maybe doesn’t understand how a sadist needs a beating just as much as a masochist says they need one. I know the release are similar. I know that if I need a beating, it is not out of the ordinary a sadist needs the release one gets when beating. It’s not wrong. It’s not weird. It is just the balance of things.
And I was happy to give it to him.
Happy to take it for him.
Happy to be his good girl.
Sometimes I don’t have much – but I have that – and boy, do I get off giving it.