Mush and Dirty Fantasies

I love sleeping with W.  Sleeping with him, in his bed, in his arms, next to his body fitted to mine.
I know, I know, I’m supposed to be writing kink stuff, not all this mushy stuff…but I just can’t help myself.  I hadn’t been to W’s in awhile, not for an overnight. Even he mentioned it: ‘I didn’t realize how much I missed you,’ he said, as I snuggled into him after we’d got done playing downstairs.  I sighed happily.  ‘Until I started torturing you,’ he finished.  Of course he had to add that, my Mr. Mean Guy. He wouldn’t be the Mean Guy if he didn’t, now would he?  But I know he misses more than torturing me, and it made my heart fill.
Of course there was kink, before the curled-up-in-bed-together part, his arm heavy across me, a heavy beaten metal collar around my throat, my high heels on my feet once more, where they should be.  My cunt was tender from his hands earlier, my asshole raw from him ravaging it, and memories of being gagged and handcuffed, my tits stretched and nipples collared, and my feet, cunt lips and tips of my nipples poked with sharp pointy sticks still clear in my mind.
That’s right, sharp pointy sticks.
There was a certain elegance to the way he did it. Slowly, deliberately, taking these skewers and pressing them into the arches of my feet in their strappy sandals, gradually applying pressure until I was gasping through the metal gag he had in my mouth, sure that he was going to break the skin.  Then he would take it/them (there were two) and push them into my nipples, nipples that were already tender from the collars, and then my cunt lips, and my clit hood, and eventually the clit itself. It was an exercise in self control, because I knew that if I squirmed, if I jerked, if I even breathed too hard, that fucking skewer would go right through my tits, right through my clit, goddamn it.  And here’s the difficult part (besides me not squirming, that’s a sight to behold):  the gag he used is one I don’t think he’s used before, and it had this metal tongue depresser, and I couldn’t swallow or move my tongue, so every so often…I would become convinced that I was drowning.
Yeah okay, stop laughing.  I know it’s not possible (is it??) to drown in your own spit, (even as much spit as I seem to generate), but dammit, I knew I was drowning, and I started to panic, and started thrashing about, choking and gargling in my spit, the handcuffs biting into my wrists and those damn pokers sharp sharp sharp against whatever bit of skin W was pressing them into.  And I’d have to get my head again, through sheer effort of will, think myself down, settle, settle, go still and quiet again because otherwise I was going to end up skewered.  Skewered and pierced in a place I do not want to be pierced.
Later, laying bed, he held me against him and said almost tenderly against the top of my head, his fingers pulling and pinching my sore nipples, “I’ve been thinking a lot about sticking needles through your tits.  Oh, not me, but sending you to someone.”  Pause, while I pull away from him, already saying, “No…!” (as if that has any bearing.)
“I might even learn to do it myself.  I really want to see that, needles shoved through your nipples.”  And then as I pulled back and squirmed in my head and my body, denying the idea, he pushed me over and took my ass.
He talks about so many things, I never know which he really wants to do and which are fantasies he is weaving, for himself, for me.  Because he tells me awful things, things that scare me and thrill me at once, whispers them in my ear while he is fucking me, while his fingers are in my cunt, and I can’t help but respond, it is like a line from my brain to my cunt. This particular night, or maybe the morning after, he let me fuck him.  Wait, ‘let me’ doesn’t adequately describe it.  He told me to fuck myself, to use his cock in whichever hole I desired (so I had that choice at least) and to make myself come.  Over and over. Demanded it.  That wasn’t a choice.
But see, he’s sweet, because when I am tired and don’t think I can, and he is telling me to, he starts saying these dirty things in my ear, telling me how he is going to send me to some stranger to get fucked in the ass (“only your ass”) and tell this stranger to take a picture of his cock in my ass and show it to his friends, and when he’s done with me, to push me out his front door in my panties and bra, to throw my clothes in a plastic bag after me, and leave me there to wait for W to pick me up.  Or how he is going to send me to someone to shove needles through my tits, or sew my cuntlips closed, another something he has talked to me about but which I don’t know if he is serious about, but those dirty scary fantasies he weaves push me there again, making me rise through the exhaustion to reach for another orgasm.
And then I collapse against him, feel his arms tight around me, feel him pull me back against him, wrapping himself around me, possessing me even in sleep.  And I love it, and I love him, dirty fantasies and all.

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