Friday, January 24, 2014

What Happened Last Night

I had not been planning on posting today, but if you caught the message added to yesterday's post, you'll know Husband's car was crashed that afternoon. And, as is bound to happen after a catastrophe like that, plans change.

Husband's car was brand new. He loved it. We are not the kind of people who get a new car every few years; we drive our cars into the ground, and only replace them when the they have to be towed away. So we don't get to enjoy that "new car feeling" very often.

Yesterday, he ran into a store to pick up a few things, and while inside, a delivery truck drove into his car and smashed it.

He called me and told me what happened.
"I'll be home late," he said. "I need to talk to the driver, and the owner of the company he's working for."
I wanted to cry for him. Husband was in full 'I need to deal with this matter' mode, thinking about paperwork, phone calls, next steps--what needed to get done. But I knew he was in despair.

He didn't call again until much later.
"I think I'll be home in a hour," he said--this time his voice was gruff. "You be ready for me."
I knew what that meant. I was about to become his whipping post.

By the time he came home, the kids were in their beds, and I was waiting for him in the bedroom, naked, and on high alert.
He didn't take off his belt as he walked in the door. I should have known things were going to go differently right then.
"Lie down over the bed," he said. 
I bent my body over the edge of the bed, reaching my hands forward until I could just grasp the opposite edge.
"On your toes," he said. It was then I began to worry. Husband knows how hard it is for me to stay on my tiptoes while I'm being 'handled'; my legs begin to shake as my muscles give into the tension. But I went on my toes, as ordered, raising my ass a few inches higher.
He didn't take off his belt. He started with his bare hand, spanking me with blows that pushed me into the mattress. There was no warmup. His palm hitting my flesh again and again sounded like thunderclaps.
I started trying to pull myself over the bed. He pulled me back down by the shoulders.
"Oh no you don't," he growled, and spanked me faster.
I grabbed a pillow and shoved my face into it to muffle my crying. 

And here's where the scene took a turn away from the typical, and into the land of terrible: he didn't slow down when he realized I was crying in pain. He kept going.
And then he grabbed the hair brush.
"I haven't used this for a while," he whispered. I had to hold back a sob to hear him. "I think it's time."
The hair brush is one of the worst weapons in his arsenal. It's wide, covering a large swath of skin, and it stings. It doesn't take a lot of force to cause damage. Husband thinks it's a fun little toy; I think it's the devil's invention.
Using the brush on a clear, unbruised bottom is bad enough; using it on an already-red-and-stinging bottom is unadulterated agony.
For a few minutes, I was in pure, righteous hell. After every swat of the brush, a second of shock would hit me along with the pain, like I couldn't believe how much this swat hurt after the last one. Like my mind simply couldn't take it.
And then I realized: he was not going to stop on his own. He was going to keep going, and keep going, until I safeworded.
It was only a few swats after that I safeworded, loudly.
He stopped immediately. He let me cry for a few minutes on his shoulder. But it was clear the scene was not yet done.

"Are you okay now?" He asked me when my breathing had returned to normal and the tears had stopped. "All fine?"
"I guess," I said, gingerly touching my ass.
"Okay. Then here's what I want you to do: go in the bathroom. Clean yourself out. Lube your ass up, and present yourself back over the bed. I'm going to fuck your ass, and I'm not going to be gentle about it."
His words filled me with shock and fear. I knew by "clean yourself out," he meant this:
He knows this procedure takes me time. More importantly, he knows I need a while to recover before I'm, shall we say, ready for more action.
He wasn't giving me that time. And he wasn't giving me a choice.
He saw my look of terror, the hesitation on my face, and said:
"It's either this or more of the brush. And there will be no safewording this time. I'll keep going until I feel like stopping."
I thought my heart would stop right there.
"When you say lube yourself up..."
"I'm not going to make sure you do it right. What you use is what you've got, and you'd better use enough, or it's gonna hurt."
Now, I'm an anal slut by nature. I've made that plain. But that doesn't mean I like being rammed in the ass straight on; I need some time, a gentle introduction so to speak, before the fun can really start.
"So it's either you fuck my ass hard--"
"Or the brush. What's it gonna be?"
I had to think about it; really think about it. The choice I was facing made me want to cry all over again.
"I'll be ready in a few minutes," I said. He left the room.

I can't describe to you the emotions that went through me as I prepared. There was surprise, and there was fear...but there was also this heady feeling of arousal, this knowledge that something was about to happen to me that I couldn't control and I couldn't escape and I couldn't bargain out of...that this man whom I had given absolute authority over me was about to violate me in ways he never had before...and I was so aroused I could hardly stand it. My body was running on pure adrenaline, my head rushing with it...and I loved it.

A little while later, when he came back into the room, I was presented as instructed.
"Spread," he said. I spread.
He rammed into me just as he had warned he would, fast and hard, and I shrieked so loud I was sure I'd wake up the kids. He started fucking my ass, savagely.
The initial pain and brutality of it skyrocketed me to new heights of arousal. Pain, mixed with fear, mixed pure and potent was like nothing I'd ever felt before.
But I wasn't sure if I was allowed to come without permission.
"Please, can I--"
"Come this time," he said, grunting. I had no idea what that meant, except that I could give in to to the avalanche of pleasure about to pour over me and let it ride me out. He didn't alter his rhythm as I came, but kept going at a good pace, and it was just heaven.
But when I was done, he knew what I was thinking. After I come, I get very tight, and usually he has to finish fairly quickly or it starts to hurt me badly.
"Don't think you're going anywhere anytime soon," he said. I could hear the satisfaction in his voice, the smug knowledge that he was scaring me all over again. "I'm going to take my time, and you're not going to move."
I knew better than to say anything in protest--but my limbs began to shake. 
He kept pumping, and my ass grew tighter; and I knew by the sounds he was making that while he was enjoying himself, he was actively trying to hold himself back. It hurt, and I started to cry out a little, but it didn't make any difference.

And then something strange happened. I started feeling another orgasm building up; I knew it would be great, more intense than the last one, because my ass was already clenching and sore.
"I'm going to come again," I said.
"No you're not," he said from behind me. "You'll wait this time."
It was then I realized he had known, he had known, I would be coming again. He knew my body better than I did. And now he was ordering me to wait.
I tried. I tried so hard. I relaxed my muscles, focused on my breathing, and did everything I could to hold myself back. And meanwhile, he kept going, working at his own pace, moving the way he wanted to extend his own pleasure.
"Play with your clit," he said. "But don't come yet."
His words were like ice water on my already shaking flesh.
"I'll can't, or I'll come," I wailed. "Please, can't I--"
He had grabbed the hair brush from the countertop, and brought it down on the mound of my bottom with blunt force. I yelped.
"Do it," he said. "Or I'll keep using the brush. I may use it anyway, I don't know..."
"Okay, okay," I sobbed. I felt so helpless, and afraid of my own body's reactions; but more than anything, I felt in awe of him, and adoration over his control over me. 
Following his orders, I gasped by the first touch; I was so sensitive, I knew I wouldn't be able to hold out much longer.
"I'll know if you come," he warned. "Don't yet."
He rammed, and I rubbed, and my ass grew even tighter; I could hear him gasping in ecstasy. The sounds only aroused me more. I started to cry.
"Please, please, please..." 
That was all I could get out, that one word. Over and over again. He said nothing to my begs for release. I could tell he was enjoying listening to me plead.
Finally, after a long time, he gave me what I needed.

"Now," was all he said. It was all he needed to say: I came with blinding light, like a firecracker going off into the sky, colors exploding behind my eyelids and jolts of pleasure racking my whole body. It didn't stop; it kept going, on and on, as he kept pumping into my ass from behind me, letting his own pleasure go at his own pace, feeling my body spasm and roil around and beneath him.

I had no idea when he was done. I was completely out of it at that point. My nerves were shot to hell, cold and dead. I was awake, but like a zombie.
I know he took care of me, because as I came back from the black cloud my mind had wandered into, I realized I was in bed, under a blanket, and he was lying next to me, holding me against his chest.
"You okay?"
It was over now. His voice was his own again, not the savage sadist's it had been before. He was watching me, looking for signs of acute subdrop, and taking care to make sure I was okay. My heart swelled with love all over again.
"Yeah. I think. Oh my god. That was intense."
"You liked it?"
He sounded worried. Like he was thinking maybe, now that it was all over, he had gone too fucking far.
"Are you kidding me? I loved it. Oh my god. That was incredible."
My words brought a huge grin to his face.
"Good to know," he said. "And you're really okay?"
"Yeah, just tired."
"Go to sleep then. I'm going to go downstairs." He kissed my forehead and got up to get dressed.
"Goodnight," I said.
He left the room.
After he left, I did go through a bit more of a subdrop; I began to feel shaky, and cold, like the numbness that had filled my mind before was now hitting my flesh. 
But I felt like I could handle it. I knew, if I called Husband, he would immediately rush back and stay with me until he was sure I was 100% okay. But I didn't want him to have to do that, so I didn't call him. Instead, I went to bed.

And now I'm fine. My butt is colorful, but I'm fine. And more than ever, completely, hopelessly, utterly in love with that man.
I derive great satisfaction from being his whipping post. It makes me feel happy, proud, almost smug that I can do this service for him. But last night went beyond that. 
It showed me how much he knows my body, better than I know myself. And it showed me how my willingness to give myself to him, my body, my soul, everything, only brings me to greater heights of pleasure and satisfaction. 
I love you, Husband. So, so much.

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