(Continued from this post on W’s and my trip to Baltimore and the Shore.)
Monday came, and I had to be a professional woman again. I’d brought a variety of Working Woman clothes (the professional type, not the streetwalker type)…
…and W had brought some Wearables to make my working days at the conference fun.
We both loved the old hotel that we stayed at. The conference hotel was too rich for my organization (we’re a cash-strapped charity) and so I had gone online and found us a deal. It was a lovely turn-of-the-century hotel in the Mt. Vernon historical district, and although at first I was sad not be in the Inner Harbor area, where I had stayed last year and where the conference hotel is, I am really glad we did now. I had decided to walk and take public transportation as much as was feasible, and we ended up walking back and forth to the Inner Harbor and all over the neighborhood where the hotel was, which was a delight.
And that afternoon, when I got back from the conference, W made fine use of the big bed in our room.
First he mauled me…
Then he pinned me.
I have to chuckle now about a Twitter conversation I recently had with someone. He is…a bit pedantic and dogmatic in his pronouncements at times, and occasionally makes “One True Way” type statements. Recently one of those was, “Everyone interprets pain the same.” (Vis-a-vis his implication that a Top isn’t a Good Top™ unless he has tried anything he would do to a submissive on himself first, in order to understand what it feels like to him/her.) Hrm. Okay, while I accept that one might want to know what an implement feels like, using it on yourself does not equate to knowing what that implement feels like to anyone else. We each interpret pain–and pleasure–differently.
Case in point: clothespins.
I do not interpret clothespins–at least on certain areas of my body–as pain. They feel pleasurable to me. And no, I’m not talking pain-as-pleasure (although there are times when they are that, as well) but as pleasure alone. And even sometimes in the places they do normally hurt, given the right stimulus, even that no longer registers as pain to me, but as pleasure. They do not hurt during those times. In fact, when highly aroused, I can have an orgasm from the removal of them, as my body interprets that pain as pleasure as well. I’m just wired that way.
I am damn certain that what some other people feel when clothespins are applied is not pleasure at all, and in fact I have a good friend that is that way. To her, the pain is intense, an excruciating, sharp, jabbing sensation that she can’t tolerate.
Not how they feel to me, at all.
So if this Top was one of that type, and used a clothespin on himself, and found it to be excruciating, but the person he played with was like me…well, you can see how the way he played with him or her might not be a good experience for that person. Likewise if, say, he interprets the feeling of a heavy flogger as a pleasant back massage, and his bottom feels it as deep, heavy pain, there could be some misapplication of that implement as well. We each interpret sensation differently, and no one can know what it feels like for anyone else. Don’t ever try to tell me that you know what I feel, because it ain’t true. And don’t base your decision of how to play with me based on how a thing feels to you. Much better to pay attention to me and my reactions and what you see and hear from me, than to try to base your understanding on your own experience of a thing.
Just my two cents.
Anyway, all this by way of the funny story that goes along with the clothespins.
So W mauled me, and rubbed all over me, and then he clothespinned me, and then he zippered the clothespins off me, and the whole time he’d left my cunt alone. I was pushing it into the bed as much as I could, trying to get at that sweet spot so desperately, but he wasn’t letting me have any of that. Finally, after he yanked the zipper off and turned me over, I lay there, panting, horny as fuck, wanting to come so bad I was whimpering.
And wanting to come the way I knew I could, the way I had with my Ex, who had discovered Jade’s Joy of Clothespinned Orgasm®.
Finally, I got up the nerve to ask him. “Please,” I said, in a breathy little pant, “will you put the zipper on my tits while I touch myself, and yank the clothespins off, over and over, and not stop until I come?”
His eyes widened. “Seriously?” I don’t think he believed I really wanted it. And honestly, the minute it was out of my mouth, I wondered too. Did I really just ask for that? Sure, my Ex used to put them on, one by one, and take them off as I came, but…well, I knew it would different than the Ex doing it. Of that I could be certain. This was W, after all…
And, <ahem> this was a clothespin zipper. With like 40 bazillion clothespins. The Ex had never done anything like that. (A detail I may have glossed over when I insisted to W that I loved it when my Ex did it, by the way.)
But…that was the point, wasn’t it?
“Yes,” I said. “Seriously.”
So he did.
I took three applications and rips of the zipper before I came.
The interesting part to me is that what finally tipped me over was not actually the sensation of the pins themselves. That felt great, and each rip left me gasping and moaning with that peculiar mixture of pleasure & pain, but my head wasn’t quite in the right place to reach an orgasm. It was that whole “asking for it” thing rearing it’s ugly little head again. So although I was getting there, I still wasn’t quite at the tipping point–
Until he slapped my hand away when I tried to stop him as he was applying them for the third time.
See, the ripping off actually is a pain-as-pleasure sensation, with the intensity being on the pain side of the thing in the way that he was doing it. He wasn’t being gentle. He applied and ripped and applied and ripped almost before I could catch my breath, mercilessly, and gleeful in that mercilessness. I would just start to float with the pleasure of their application, then explode into the pain of them being ripped off almost before I’d had a chance to breathe, before being suffused by the nearly-orgasmic pleasure that quickly followed. But it was almost too much, too intense. I was actually a little on sensory overload by the time he started putting them on for the third time, and started to struggle against him a bit.
He was having none of that. I could almost hear the words in the air as he held me down and put them on, one by one: “You asked for it–now take it!”
And that was all it took. To know that he was in control, that he was calling the shots.
And as he grabbed my wrist and pinned it down, then reached over and ripped the pins away for the third time, I writhed and bucked and came, screaming with a pleasure so intense I about had an aneurysm.
As we both lay panting afterward, he turned me and shook his head. “I never would have done that to you if you hadn’t asked for it. Women are so much kinkier than men.”
Huh. When I think of all the things I have in my head, of all the things I’ve wanted him to do to me, of all the sick, twisted, fucked-up kinky fantasies I’ve never told him–or at least never asked him to do for real–I have to agree. I’m one kinky bitch.
But it takes him to do all those things, and to make me take it when I want to back out, when I think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, and to take pleasure in the doing of it.
Knowing how a clothespin feels on himself has nothing to do with knowing how to do that.
(Continued from this post on W’s and my trip to Baltimore and the Shore.)