A Girl and a Beating

My girl J came into town this weekend. Or I guess I should say “our girl.”  Because now there is an established relationship between her and A, a relationship that is theirs, as well as the relationship that exists between her and I, and the budding relationship between the three of us.  A relationship that I encouraged, facilitated, and welcome. It’s hot, and sweet, being apart from them and knowing they are together, enjoying each other, sexually and otherwise.  Knowing that they are becoming lovers, in the fullest sense of the word.  Occasionally I experience twinges of jealousy, when they share a special look, when he says something just for her, when they exhibit their unique and separate relationship from the one we three share…when I realize it is not just about sex anymore, but becoming something deeper…I both want that to happen and yet still I have insecurities to deal with.  I wonder if A feels that, when he is with W and I and something that is just between us sparks.  Does he ever feel excluded?  Does W?
This “exclusion” is not a bad thing…they have their relationship, just as I have mine with A, with W, with my Others.  It’s a necessary–and good, healthy–part of any relationship.  There’s part of me that rejoices in seeing it, in being part and yet not-part of their blossoming relationship, in experiencing vicariously the new relationship energy between them. It’s just that it’s all new, and strange, in that although I have been involved in multiple relationships for several years now, I’ve never been in one in which A has a romantic connection to an Other, to another woman. I like it, on a personal level of simply taking joy in his pleasure and joy (and hers), but I also find it a challenge–but in that, I also find a kind of pleasure.  It is making me stretch my own comfort level, making me challenge myself personally and confront my own demons and insecurities.  It hurts sometimes, this stretching, this finding and confronting of flaws in myself, but like my body after running or a good beating, it hurts in a good way.  I know I can overcome, I know that I will make it through to the other side, and in the end be stronger–and better–for it.  And the joys to be experienced in the doing, in the experience itself, far outweigh any growing pains.
We played, W and I, while J watched, on Thursday night. It was a pretty intense whipping scene, made more so by the fact that I knew she was watching it all, although there were times when I was so deep in what he was doing that I lost awareness of everything outside of my own experience: what was happening to my body, what was happening in my head. At times I even lost awareness of him, something I have never done before.  I was just so deep in what I was experiencing, in the physical sensations I was experiencing, as opposed to being focused on the connection between he and I. More than once he stepped up close behind or in front of me to touch me and I was startled to find him there.  My world narrowed down to the moments between the strikes of the whip, the crop, flogger or cane, the moments of bated breath, waiting for the next strike, for the sharp bite of pain followed by the suffusing pleasure, pleasure that carried me off somewhere that only existed in my head even as I felt myself above and beyond either my head or my body.
I would love to describe the scene bit and bit, blow-by-blow, as it were, but I find that I cannot. As hard as I try to remember everything, I have no clear recollection of it, of all the pieces that made up the whole…only fragments, pieces torn out of the fabric of the whole.
There was the beginning…when he tied J and I up side by side against his newly painted wall. We teased a bit, and played, talking to each other, reaching out for the other…joking back and forth. My awareness at that time was almost all on her, on our banter, on the reconnection between she and I, as this was the first time I had seen her in a few weeks.  She had been with A earlier that afternoon, while I wrapped up at work, and I knew they had had sex…I wanted to lay her down and lick every inch of her body where he had touched her…I wanted to know and yet not to know what they had done.  I asked, joked, obliquely about it. But did I really want to hear about it? I love being with them when they have sex, even that awful night at Beat Me, laying in the bed apart from them sick and miserable, the sounds of them excited me. But did I want to hear about it after, when I could not be there, to know what they shared without me? In the end I didn’t press for details, unsure of what I would feel, and not wanting any ambiguous feelings to mar the night.  These are new waters I am treading…so I am taking it slow.  Testing the depth of the water, to extend the metaphor.  But what little she did say made me grin, and happy for them both.
Then W took me to the center of the room and tied my wrists and ankles to the chains hanging from his ceiling. He did something…I am not sure what…that made me whine and bitch…and he shoved a soft, bite-able bit gag in my mouth to shut me up. I can’t believe I don’t recall what it was that precipitated the gag…but regardless, from that moment I sank down into a different headspace. I knew he was going to hurt me, hell I’d been begging for a beating, but it wasn’t until that moment that I really accepted that yes, it was going to happen, it was going to hurt, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I gave in, I submitted, and went inside myself, and from that moment on I only had flashes of awareness of either him or her…and surprisingly, most often of her. Seeing her across the room occasionally, when I came out of a haze of pain or endorphins, regrounded me. Sometimes, I worried about her…worried that her feet hurt, or her hands, but mostly that she was bored. Because I knew even in that moment that she wasn’t reacting like I would have in that situation, or like others I have played with have. I love bondage, you can just tie me up and leave me be, and I’ll play happily in my head there, as long as I feel the pull of the rope, the tightness of it, the helplessness of it. And I know W well enough to know that simply tying a girl up against a wall to watch him beat up another one is hot to him. There is submission in that, and I would have enjoyed it for that reason alone. It was obvious that she didn’t, and wasn’t, though. And so that made me sad, because I wanted her to be enjoying herself, and worried about her–but in a way, that was okay, because it drew me out of my headspace every so often, like coming up to breathe after having been underwater for a long time. You can only hold your breath for so long before you drown.
We play differently, she and I.  We process things differently, we deal with things differently.  We find different things enjoyable and react in different ways.  I hated it that she didn’t enjoy the scene…I really wanted to find that space with her, as I have with others I have played with. That after-space, when you are both flushed and excited and exhausted and just want to love and touch and caress and hold each other and laugh and cry together.  I really want to find a way to play with her, with W and/or with A, that is enjoyable for us all. I really really enjoy her as a friend and a lover…I would like to find some way that we enjoy each other as scene partners as well.  But we play so differently…and so differently from the way that I have played with other subs…it’s a little hard to find that common space, to share the experience.  So, it’s a learning curve.  But as she said, she is new to everything…to multiple loves, to a girlfriend, to BDSM, to W…to it all.  It’ll take time.
Luckily, I believe there is room enough and time for us to learn and grow together in this.
There were other moments…W caning me in time to the music…the slash of the Dragon’s Tail on my front, snapping me out of deep space…the depth of his flogging, so hard, so deep it was like…the pounding of waves on a beach…on me, into me, relentless.  A moment of pure panic when he took the crop to my pussy…he actually used it, but not as I originally panicked about.  I do recall losing it though, fighting gasping pleading, wild-eyed and panting.  They said I smacked W in the head at one point as well, flailing, but I don’t remember that. I don’t recall flailing about at all, in fact. J said she was afraid he would hit me harder as punishment for that…she also said she was afraid he would punish her for some other things (can’t recall what just now) …but he doesn’t play that way. Punishment is not part of his play style, ever.  He does what he does because he enjoys it, not to punish. And I think he enjoyed what he was doing that night.
Oh…I remember more…the singletail…harsh slashes in between the little brushing snaps that I love.  The singletail on my front…God I am just recalling that…beautiful…hot, erotic, sexy, and scary…no one has ever used a singletail on my abdomen before.  That was a moment I do remember connecting directly with him, looking up at him and feeling that pull he has…he is so fucking intense…he scares me and thrills me and I felt afraid and safe at the same time.
Strangely enough…I don’t think there was any sex during the scene. I mean, I know there wasn’t sex…but…usually caning does this weird thing…it arouses me, makes me almost frenzied at times…and usually W fucks me with his hands and fingers at least…I think there may have been an edge of that, but then it went beyond sex into pure S/M…it wasn’t about sex, or arousal.  And yet…I was aroused, excited, in those moments when I came to myself again. And I could have gone there if he’d chosen to take me in that direction. It made it…interesting…and different.  A different kind of scene.
After, when he brought me down, he went to untie J, and I gratefully lay on the cool floor, curled in on myself for awhile. I cried a bit, something I seldom do, but it was a welcome release.  Eventually W came over from untying J to hold me. I was so deep in my own head that I didn’t notice him there for a moment, or know who it was, but then I clung to him, needing his warmth and strength and gentleness.  What I would have really liked would have been to be carried to the bed and been held by the two of them, held and petted and loved on.  And then–an orgasm!!  Hands and kisses and warm girl body and gentle fingers inside me making me come…  But we knew A was on his way, so instead we went downstairs.  I don’t remember going there.  And there was talking, but I don’t recall a word of what was said. And then A showed up…I think I talked to him for a bit and then…I curled up on the couch and was out.  Just like that. The sound of their voices drifting over me and then receding entirely.
Later, there was bed with W (A had taken J home with him) and W wrapped himself around me and stroked me and made me come.  And like the tears, it was a gentle, much-needed release. I drifted off to sleep, exhausted and content, in his arms.

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