Not much kink involved in this writing but it needs to be expressed since for the past year I have been living through what I always considered would be a personal Hell. Hell feels overdone here and I don’t mean to minimize the suffering of others but this experience has taken its toll on me in ways I anticipated but could have never prepared for.
This month will mark the one year anniversary of the day my Father fell and broke his kneecap, changing the course of my own and my Mother’s life forever. The Fall rendered my Father 80 years old, morbidly obese, Diabetic and permanently disabled and, while I have been aware of this possibility for many years, it was the kind of end of life care that I rightly dreaded. Prior to the fall I pictured him dying peacefully of a heart attack, however I see now that life is rarely so neat and tidy. Today my septuagenarian Mother and I are obligated to care for him on a daily and nightly basis and it wears on us in all the ways you could imagine. While we are blessed that his brain is intact and he doesn’t suffer from dementia (or Parkinson’s- a friend’s Father died of Parkinson’s and it was an excruciating way to go), the stress has worn me down and our lives have changed dramatically for the foreseeable future.
Of course there is also a beautiful side to this story. Aging Father begins to recognize all that he has taken from only child, offers words of thanks which were never proffered earlier in life, recognition dawns that the demands he made were never earned, etc. But this isn’t a fairy tale, and there isn’t always kindness. Boundaries are drawn, and occasionally he rails at me for drawing them. In between, I attempt to protect my Mother from the vagaries of his daily moods and existence, and I occasionally rage at the lack of fairness we all come to recognize and are sometimes forced to embrace as we move through our journeys on this planet. There are beautiful days and then there are tears, and we push through all of it to wake up the next day and do what needs to be done.
Memories: I remember crying when I first received news that he had fallen, because immediately I knew that our lives would never be the same. I remember all of the talks we had with him prior to the fall encouraging him to use the walker which he refused to use due to stubbornness. I remember the fact that he slept in the car that night, shifting constantly to avoid the pain and his aforementioned stubbornness preventing us from taking him to the hospital. I remember him throwing coffee at me out of anger the next day and I remember the six weeks he spent in the assisted rehab facility, the first we had encountered which didn’t feel abusive and haunted. We had a stairlift chair installed in his home and he has now left the house 6 times in the last 9 months. I remember each of those trips. I remember my Mother’s breakdowns and his tantrums, of which thankfully there are fewer and fewer. He is bedridden and depends upon us for food and drink and everything in between, and it wears both of us down to our cores. One couldn’t do this without the other, and yet I want only to be able to protect her from her sacrifices. She is too beautiful and wonderful a human to be sacrificing the last good years of her life for this, and I want more than anything to protect her. I know that being here with her goes a long way, but I need to do more in the future, and I will. But for now, this hangs like a yolk around our necks. There isn’t anything which can be done, no magic cures or potions which would turn back the clock, and seeing his condition worsen has fundamentally shaped my view of personal responsibility and its importance in our lives. I will make it through this personal Hell, but not without the scars life marks us with.
“I’ve never been fucked like that before” she panted, fluid puddling underneath her hole, head resting on the back of my couch. Sweat dripped off both our bodies as my handprints slowly faded from her hips and I rolled the condom off my dick to tie my come inside. I knew the first time I pushed my fingers inside her pussy that it would milk my dick tightly when I slipped inside her; the walls contracted around my digits, pushing outwards while I stroked her G spot and made her squirt delicately onto her smooth, tender skin. Now, breathing heavily myself and flushed from the strength of my orgasm, I savored the feeling of having taken what I wanted from her body while she felt her own after effects of my lust- head buried in her arms, ass still in the air for the taking, moaning softly and rocking her hips in rhythm as though I was still buried deep inside her.
I named her bitch when she demonstrated a propensity to hump my leg like a dog. That night I often saw her drifting in and out of conscious thought, and as we lay in bed she rhythmically straddled my leg while I choked her and I watched a smile play across her lips as her breathing hoarsened. She continuously rubbed her closely shorn pubis against my large thigh and I knew that she was free to be what she always dreamed she could be. Possessed. Owned. Dragged into the depths of her darkest fantasies, the underworld of our being. Most people never live at all and those who do rarely live a life such as this. Watching a woman fade away and become the truth will shock and frighten the uninitiated, but for me it comes naturally. Having lived enough to know that darkness lurks inside us all, I see that there are things which sometimes cannot be shown to the world and revel in facilitating the release of that energy. In fact, I have seen the attendant purge of emotion be the most truthful moment of a young woman’s life.
I fucked her with my digits for twenty minutes as she whimpered, convulsing as though her body was on a string held by my fingertips. I opened her vulva and thumbed her asshole, which provoked her to move her wrist back in a wan attempt to convince me not to invade that orifice. I used my other hand to grasp her slender wrist and held it to her haunch, then as I fingerfucked her harder she stroked the back of my hand and begged more loudly. Her hips bucked, and she knew that she belonged to Me. My fingers caressed every millimeter of her cunt and I imagined her holding my cock deep inside her body as I stroked her cervix with three fingers. She came repeatedly as I looked down at her reddened ass and slender waist, and her flesh was unadorned save for the marks I had given her.
She rocked in concert with my fingers, and her juices coated our flesh. When I led her by her throat or hair she was lost in a dream like state and when I slapped her she was transported from this world and no longer existed in her physical form. The darkness had consumed her so thoroughly that afterwards when I pissed on her she was spent, her wide eyes smiling up at me as she held her hair in a bun. she was now free.
For me the point of a spanking is usually not punishment. It certainly can be used as such if I’ve been disappointed, however the ultimate aim of a spanking is to further the process of submission. It is to see a woman step outside of herself and accept the fact that she enjoys what I choose to do to her. In fact, for most women the emotional connection we share during a spanking is stronger than almost any other interaction they’ve had with a man. The intimacy involved can be frightening and unsettling because it forces the exploration of a piece of themselves never before unleashed.
I recall the spanking I gave a visiting stewardess. She wanted to be spanked for the first time in 10 years- an ex boyfriend had spanked her in her twenties and she again craved the release. She didn’t want to have sex- I could touch and spank her but sex was not a part of our agreement. I agreed to proceed because I wanted to attempt to separate the traditional part of my sexual being from the act of giving a spanking. We met in the lobby of her hotel- this night inspired the account entitled Stand Up which is posted on the blog. I liked her because I recognized she was used to being in control of her everyday life. She was not a wallflower or a woman of ill-repute. Rather, she had some kinky impulses she needed to indulge in a safe, anonymous way. I provided the outlet she needed. When we returned to her hotel room and I entered her with my fingers, her entire being shifted. I felt her soften further under my touch, which happens during the seduction of any new partner. With D/s the process of seduction and shifting of dynamics is clearly more pronounced. Both parties feel the shift more dramatically. A woman’s senses become heightened because she is not merely allowing a man to enter her- she is relinquishing control of her body and her actions, if only for a defined period of time. Therefore her expectations of the encounter are raised. She expects the man who controls her to be worthy and skilled- otherwise she would manage her own sexual satisfaction.
In this case, I entered her with my fingers. I fucked her with them and held her body down over me as she writhed. I then placed my lubricated thumb at her asshole and again the tenor of her body changed. She tensed and moaned but did not stop me or utter a word as I slowly pressed inside of her and filled both of her orifices with my digits. As she writhed I talked to her about how dirty and naughty she was being. At one point I said “You are being a good girl giving this to me.” To which she replied viscerally “I’m not giving… you are taking it!” Not long afterwards she came with a tremendously violent shake. She heaved over me and convulsed around my fingers then lay sprawled across my lap, spent.
The most interesting part of our encounter closely followed her orgasm. No more than two minutes after she had cum so violently- after she had told me what an amazing experience she’d had and how happy she was to have met me- she reverted back to her public face. It had become too intimate for her to continue being submissive to me even as she stood naked before me and had obeyed me completely not 10 minutes before. She had indulged her kink and already locked it away for future fantasy. Then she told me that nothing had ever been inside her ass. I’m sure many men had attempted to touch her there and pleaded with her in the hopes she would allow them to fuck her there but she had always turned them down. It was only when I’d made it clear that I could handle her body competently that she acceded to my penetrations.
That is the allure of submission and of over-the-knee spanking. It is a ritual which contains its own rules and mores. Normally I use spankings as the introduction of submission to a new kinky relationship/arrangement. I strip a woman naked, inspect and fondle her, then place her over my lap and spank her to formally establish Dominance. I normally give a woman multiple orgasms during and after a spanking and customarily it is only after I’ve spanked a woman that I will allow her to undress and touch me. Before I’ve finished I am continuing to establish the bond and trust between myself and a new partner. I am proving that I know how to touch her body as well or better than she does. I am proving that I deserve to be in control and that she is in safe, capable hands. I am showing her that this experience will be unlike any other she’s had. A real spanking best exemplifies the things I’m capable of and places both of us in the proper frame of mind to continue on to even deeper layers of sexuality and control.
More than once I have heard women say “I feel so safe” after I towered above them, wrapped my long fingers around their windpipes, pulled their hair, watched them melt and taken what I wanted. I am sure this is a function of my size (enormous), and the calm I have built up to buffet myself from the winds which whip around us in our daily lives. Today there is very little which affects me negatively on a personal level and it is difficult to annoy, bother or anger me, however this was not always the case. When I was a younger man I was easily riled, to the point that I hated myself for my inability to control my own emotions. I was raised by a poor role model for self control, as my Father was incapable of restraint and his emotional insecurity inevitably bled into my own mindstate, coloring every interaction I had with the world around me.
In my late teens and early twenties I tore at my body viciously in an attempt to escape my lack of self control and self hatred. I wanted to kill them, and with it I would have been willing to kill myself. Not with suicide attempts but instead with alcohol, self loathing and self destruction. Yet despite taking a scalpel to the gifts I had been given, I was not successful in destroying the things I cherished deep inside, no matter how hard I tried. As I began to realize what I was doing, I gradually and painfully taught myself to love purely by slowly accepting and learning to love myself. Incrementally I shed the pain that had been given to me and realized that I was able to define my own reality, however difficult that might be. I stepped away from my conception of self and recast myself from victim to protagonist, realizing that ownership over my life would be the only thing to set me free. And I grew.
I quit drinking at the age of 25 while I was living and teaching English in Northern France in a run down former coal mining town of 5,000 people. Stuck in a ten by ten room I allowed the waves of insanity to wash over me as the alcohol slowly released its clutches on my brain. Hallucinations roiled in my mind and I ate dozens of bags of gummy bears to replace the sugar my body no longer received from drink. I emerged a marginally better person, with the seed having been planted that I could in fact grow and change. I realized I could become the man I wanted to be if only I worked hard enough at digging myself out of the detritus that I had heaped upon myself (and which had been heaped upon me). I could shed that which was unwanted and cleave the parts of myself which were unnecessary in order to become a better human being and a better man. I wept at the damage I had done to my body, my self, my psyche. I wept at the gifts I had attempted to steal from myself, and that which had been stolen from me. Then I pushed forward, making the mistakes we all make as we grow. Hurting myself in other ways, watching my unhealthy impulses lead me to unhealthy conclusions. The pain was real, but so was my growth.
Through it all something drew me to the idea that I would find the truth. I would become a better man and define myself in ways most do not. Gradually, I have. I am not a perfect man and am not interested in becoming one. Nor am I fully formed. However, I have lived many lives at this tender age and have seen realities that pushed me to the brink of sanity, all of which have made me more pragmatic, introspective, empathetic and intuitive than most.
It is for these reasons that I love the push and pull of D/s. I am not driven to teach strangers the ways to control their impulses or to grow as human beings, however for me sex and intimacy are inextricably linked to self growth and power, so I love sharing them with women who excite me. Pain, sex and intimacy are ways for us to truly feel, so leading a woman to her limits and watching her honestly feel the truth is exciting for me.
All this is to say that I will lead you to the edge and watch you drink from the well because I believe that pain can be transformative and that there is beauty within the pain. This does not mean that I am sadistic or need to watch you break. I simply want to see your truth and to know that you are willing to fight to live fully, yet just as important is the feeling of safety and intimacy that you will feel once the storm has passed and the calm has returned.
There is wetness between your legs. It drips from your lips and rivulets dash down the soft flesh of your inner thighs to the sheets below. I breathe in your scent- all of your scents- and push the tips of my long fingers into your opening, the skin bright and neon pink for all the world to see. Your opening flowers and I am inside you now, feeling you rock against me as I cradle your body and coax you to become one with me, to give all of yourself to my touch so that I can possess you once again. The moans and gurgles escaping your lips wash over both of us- orifices clenching while your brain flits between lust and devotion, trust and abuse, remembering how you lied when I teased that you were ready for Me to spread you open, wide smile on my lips. Eyes locked together, I stroke you deeply and recall the painting L’Origine du Monde by Courbet. You are less hirsute but no less powerful, however your power is now Mine.
My long fingers constrict your windpipe
Teeth gnaw on your bottom lip
Blood rushes to the flesh of your ass
Handprints brighten, skin throbs
The fingers of my other hand force you open and you are full
Moans escape you involuntarily
your eyes hungry with lust tinged with uncertainty
Trust coupled with fear
I position you repeatedly, your hole opens for Me
Skin slick with sweat
Hands grip you tightly
The marks my fingers leave on your body last for days
Welts are raised, bruises pool to remind you of what you are for Me
Finally you are complete
I consume you
Naked, you tremble
Shuddering, you beg Me to allow you release
I pound your hole and listen to you whimper
When I have had my fill I accede
you are flooded
Crumpling, you curl into yourself
I stroke your hair