Happy Anniversary, or: The Best Sex Ever.

Six months to the day from our first real, successful scene. And to celebrate, I had the best sex of my ever-lovin’ life.

We had some friends we trusted babysitting the baby tonight, because they wanted to give us time alone. Once our daughter was safely entertained, my wife and I headed back to the hotel room.

(What follows is pretty graphic sex. If you don’t want to read that kind of blog, you’ve been warned.)

I tried to snuggle in the elevator, but she was having none of it. She pushed me away, slashing a boundary in the air. “My space, your space and the two don’t meet. Keep your distance.” Rejected, I retreated inward a little bit, but I knew she was as horny as I was, so I saw this as simply a way to assert herself — to get into character, as it were.

Once in the hotel suite, she had me get undressed. I tried to kneel, and she reminded me that hadn’t asked me to do that, yet, had she? She went and used the bathroom while I waited. When she came out, she threw a towel on the floor, telling me to spread it out. “Kneel,” she ordered. She went back into the bathroom and cleaned up a bit, washed her hands and face, undressed, and came out and looked at me. She shook her head and grabbed her bag, and started going through it.

“Go grab your collar, slave. It’s in my suitcase.” She’d let me sleep in it the other night. I went and fetched it, and handed it over to her. She collared me and then said, “On your knees, bitch.”

I dropped down, ignoring the pain in them. She twisted my nipples and clamped them, then clamped my scrotum. My pain center lit up. “Kiss my feet,” she ordered, and I dropped down on my belly and licked her toes and feet until she was satisfied, the clamps on my chest dragging across the floor, my brain flaring in pain. “Get up on your hands and knees on the bed,” she commanded, and I did.

“I am so disappointed in you,” she said, leaning in and whispering in my ear. “You don’t get to play grabass with me unless I let you. And I’ve looked at how you live your life, and I’m not impressed. I need a man,” she said, grabbing my cock. “And look at you — you haven’t lost any weight. You eat garbage. You spend your free time watching TV. Your brain and your body are rotting…” She made me close my eyes, and then gagged me, tightly, with the ballgag.

“I was wrong to say that,” she said. “My body and my brain are rotting. Because your body and mind belong to me.“

She got the flogger out and started whipping me, and I never knew that she was holding back in previous encounters until now. She would raise her arm high up and then snap it down. The first shot hit me right in lower ass and balls, and I groaned into the gag. The next shot hit the side of my ass, and the flogger’s tendrils wrapped on my cheek and bit, hard, into my anus. It hurt so bad I couldn’t even make a sound, just felt tears come to my eyes. More shots followed — ass, back, thighs. And then she started hitting my cock and balls, underhanded snaps, unconcerned with the fact that this was the most sensitive part of my body. Each shot was punctuated by a groan or a squeal on my part. She had never beaten me like this. Never. I ached, stung, and felt my cock betray me by getting hard and leaking pre-come.

She stopped and climbed up next to me on the bed. She leaned in, held my head up, and whispered in my ear. “My body. You’re going to take better care of it, from now on. My cock. My mind. You’re going to be my big, strong, man. Become as powerful as you want to, it’s all mine. Do you understand? Nod if you do.” I tried to speak, but spittle just leaked from my gag in grotesque quantities, so I nodded. “Let’s see if you do.”

The world receded to just the pain, and her remote presence.

She started flogging me again. Then, I felt her beating me with what felt like a billyclub — it was the long handle of the flogger, hard wood with metal studs. I grunted, in pain, as the new ache started out in my bones. Finally, she climbed up next to me, and by this time she’s everything to me — the whole world, my whole fucking reality, and I ache and sting all over — and she whispered to me how wet she was, how she had hoped I had learned my lesson. My head rested in a pool of spit.

And then she told me to get down on my knees. She put her cock on while I caught my breath, and then dragged me over to the mirror so she could see me suck her off. She pulled the gag off. “That’s it, suck it. Let me see you suck it.” She’d been telling me how she’d been getting off on objectification, getting off on the power of the cock in porn, and it only added to the power trip her strap-on normally gives her. “Oh, God,” she said. I was deep-throating the cock, breathing only when she’d pull it out of my mouth and slap me in the face with it. “You’re not gagging at all. What a good boy. I wish I could come in your fucking face.”

She had me lay across the corner of the bed on my stomach, my feet on the ground, my back flat. She started using me as a table, setting KY and rubber gloves on my back, putting a glove on, lubing up my ass. Then she fucked me, hard, with her cock, slapping my flanks as she went, scratching bloody furrows into my back. Every time she thrust, my chest dragged across the bed, and the nipple-clamps would make my mind flare with pain. “I love this. And you do, too. You’re my bitch. Oh, my fucking bitch. You’re going to do whatever I say. My strong man, taking my cock.” She made me beg for more, made me tell her how much I loved it. She made me thank her as she drove into me, my nipples searing as the clamps pulled and distorted them with each thrust.

She gagged me again with the ballgag and then had me lay down on my back. “I could come right now,” she said. “I am so wet. So unbelievably wet.” She climbed on top of me and rode me, facing my feet, while she fucked me by hand with the cock from the strap-on. She pounded me with it mercilessly. I felt my eyes rolling back in my head as she synched up her thrusts with her riding. Pleasure started washing over me with each thrust, and my head drifted away into some endorphin high. Sub-space? I have no idea. But the experience was religious. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t act. All I could focus on was her, and the feelings in my cock and my ass. The pleasure washed over me in waves, riding up my body and then receding down to my cock. My head was now jammed against the headboard, and I wouldn’t notice that position until a few minutes after we were done. Oblivion, via cock and vagina.

Right as I started to come, she stopped. She turned to me, and asked, “Are you ready to come?” as I felt my cock lurch within her, my come spilling out. I grunted — no, I can safely say I screamed — in frustration through the ballgag, and she laughed, realizing her timing was screwy, and started riding me and fucking me with the cock again. All of a sudden, as my orgasm seemed to end, I hit a higher plateau, and I exploded. My eyes rolled up into my head and I came so hard — harder than I’d ever come in my life. I didn’t know you could come like this.

She got up after a moment and cleaned me off, ungagged me, and lay next to me. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think. She had me roll over and held me. I managed to moan out that I just needed a moment and would take care of her, but she told me that she’d get hers in time. That she had already gotten hers by dominating and hurting me. I was high. I was floating. All my muscles were limp.

“Happy Anniversary,” I muttered. “Six months of BDSM.”

And she said, “Oh, was that today? How appropriate, then.”

After that, it’s just a romantic evening.