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What I Need…

Category: BDMS
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Sometimes, I think he really, truly does understand how to handle me- how to keep our relationship in line the best he can. I’ve tried to explain the overwhelming need to submit, to be controlled, to be HIS- and he tells me he knows, has always known, what makes me tick. This makes me question why he doesn’t employ it more often, take the authority that I am happy to hand him, but too often, we are at odds instead. Nearly every time I have finally given up on his dominant side, he turns around and shocks hell out of me again…

This phase of our life together has been incredibly stressful for the both of us, with multiple unavoidable factors limiting our time together, sexual or otherwise. All told, it had been months since we had been in bed, for vanilla sex OR playtime, aside from one early morning quickie this previous week. It was quickly interrupted by screaming toddlers- not living up to my fantasies of a much anticipated encounter. Not a word had been uttered about giving it another try, and I was getting frustrated. I was singlehandedly managing 60-hour work weeks in a busy ICU, the house, the kids… and I needed something, ANYTHING! Instead of talking about this in a reasonable manner, I had become intolerable- bitchy and impatient every time I felt slighted, unable to see the effort he was making to help.

When I arrived home from work that night, I was exhausted and drained. I settled the children in for the night, and came into our room to find him already in our gigantic bed. I changed into sweatpants and a tank top, and snuggled in to sleep, only to find he had other ideas. He began gently stroking my back and neck, soothing the ever-present tension there. I spooned into him, as he kissed and nibbled his way up my neck, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine- he has ALWAYS been able to come up behind me, lift my hair, nuzzle my neck and make me instantly ready for him. I sighed with mingled relaxation and arousal, settling further back into him, and he slid his hands around to cup my breasts, gently stroking and teasing my nipples. My brain was already screaming, “Yes! This! I need THIS!”, hoping the foreplay would have us reconnecting in a meaningful way. His hands moved lower, slipping my sweats down my legs and drifting across my hips and thighs, and around to my sensitive pearl to play and rub there. I was suspended somewhere in an erotic haze, focused only on the sensations, when I heard a familiar, well remembered sound- the jingle of his belt buckle.

I started, pulled out of my reverie, my heart pounding in my ears. Just the sound was Pavlovian for me- I instantly was drawn back to memories of long ago nights and their after-effects, and my bottom tingled instinctively.

“What are you doing?” I asked, tentatively. He rarely, if EVER, initiated anything but playful spanking on his own. Most often, he simply swats me a few times during foreplay, to be able to say that he actually spanked me. I’ve tried hinting, asking directly and even leaving out the wooden backed hairbrush I impulsively bought for this purpose, to no result- but then, if you are not predisposed to thinking about spanking like I do, it likely meant nothing to him.

“Do you want a spanking?” he breathed in my ear, retrieving the imposing strap from his discarded jeans. My mouth was suddenly dry- did I? It had been so, SO long; did I still have the mental and physical endurance for an encounter with his thick leather belt? We used to play heavily with a flat wooden spoon and his hands, with an occasional dose of his belt thrown in, but that was back in the apartment, before we were engaged, even. Once we were married, things slowed down a bit, but I do remember a few times in our previous house that things got serious. It had been over a year since I was spanked hard enough to count, because it had never happened in this home- actually, I’m not certain it has happened since the birth of our twins.

Just as quickly, I forced down my apprehension. OF COURSE I wanted a spanking- this is what I had been asking for since the start of our relationship. I didn’t know whether this was foreplay or punishment for my attitude lately, but decided it made no difference. He was dominating and offering me the chance to relinquish control, arousing me completely.

“Yes…” I whispered back, swallowing hard.

“Go shut the door,” he commanded, and I quickly obeyed, locking it for good measure, as if someone was going to disturb us. I was filled with that brief terror of knowing one is about to be spanked- despite the fact that you fantasize about it almost every day, when presented with the actuality, you question your sanity for at least a moment. I quelled it the best I could, remembering that the apprehension and anticipation is part of WHY this is arousing, and my implicit trust in him. I removed my clothes completely, and upon returning to bed, I positioned myself over the pillows pulled down towards the center.

He spoke no words, but instead began by stroking my bottom gently with his hand. I relaxed slightly, and was rewarded with a slap of the belt. It was not hard, but he smoothed over the spot with his hand afterward, soothing the sting. A pattern emerged- a pause, a light stroke of leather, a soft caress-creating a tingling warmth and focusing me intensely on my ass, but not causing any distress. I began to think I had been concerned about my tolerance for nothing. Sure, this was his belt, but he could and HAD made more of an impact with a single resounding crack of his hand. I was easily matching my breathing with the strokes, sinking into the comfortable warmth building on my bottom, when suddenly things began in earnest.

I found myself gasping and writhing, struggling for the control to accept the intensity of the experience, grasping onto the pillow beneath me to prevent myself from reaching back. He had not doubled the belt, but instead was using a tail of about 10 or 12 inches on me, and it gave him more control of the areas he was striking. He scattered the strokes across both buttocks and my thighs, varying their intensity from a soft tap to a searing crack, giving me no way to predict or prepare for the next. They fell rapidly, and I soon lost count around 20, despite my resolve to remember the number. I was panting, but holding on, still “with myself” in my brain- not yet at the point where the pain floats away and transforms into subliminal submission. I had no idea if I could even still get there, after all this time away…

He paused, and I rolled into his embrace, my throbbing bottom pressed against him… Were we done? He was still holding the belt… He began to touch my breasts, teasing my nipples with his fingers, making them erect. I rolled onto my back, giving him freer access. As if suspended in time, I watched as he raised the tail of the belt and quickly, sharply stroked it down on my left nipple. Electricity shot through me from breast to clit and I cried out softly. He administered similar treatment to my right, and I whimpered at the mingled pain/pleasure wave that overtook me.

“OK?” he inquired, as we had never played like this before, stopping short in the realm of bruising bites and improvised nipple clamps.

“Oh, yes,” I gasped out, unable to deny the utter eroticism of submitting myself to him in that manner. To open one’s most sensitive areas to the threat of pain, to see it and know it is coming- it was insanely arousing and terrifying all at the same time. I had only been asked to submit like this once before in my life, by another lover who was certainly a dominant, and I can remember it implicitly to this day. I never expected this from him!

“Hold my hands,” I pleaded, wanting him to take away the option for me to cover myself, and he obliged, tucking his right arm under my head and restraining my right wrist while applying his body weight to my left wrist, leaving a hand free for him to tease and strike me. He played for a few minutes, rubbing and manipulating my breasts, intermingling licks of the belt on my sensitive nipples. I was straining against his confinement, unconsciously trying to protect myself despite being desperately excited. Each direct hit was like a bolt of lightning, painful but arousing- he had always played with some relentlessness when it came to my breasts, as I can practically achieve orgasm from nipple stimulation alone.

As I twisted in his grasp, my bottom felt swollen and tight, and each movement across the sheets caused me to gasp with the sensitivity there, the 500 thread count feeling like sandpaper to my abused skin. He kissed me, laying the belt aside, bruising my lips as he ravaged my mouth, releasing my hands. I twined my fingers in his hair, holding him to me, feeling his tongue tease mine as he gentled the brutal kiss before deepening it again. He trailed his fingers down to the juncture of my thighs, testing the readiness he felt there. I was more than ready, my arousal evident- as was his- but as I pushed back against his hardness, I knew we weren’t finished yet.

He rolled me back onto my stomach over the pillows, tucking my hands beneath them again, and began with the threatening strap almost instantly. We had reached the part where he wasn’t playing, wasn’t worrying about my pain anymore, and hard, serious strokes on the already reddened skin required all my concentration. They caused me to cry out into the bed, holding onto the comforter tightly and praying incoherently- for more or the end, I wasn’t certain. I could feel the welts rising, a mental picture of my ass forming before my tightly closed eyes- knowing I would bruise and mark- how badly?!?

My brain was screaming, “WHY? Why are we doing this? I don’t remember how to submit to this, it HURTS!”- but no one had told my body, which was practically vibrating with excitement. I was so wet I was soaking the bed, and I could feel his fingers searching, testing me, as he continued my punishment. Several times I briefly shifted, turning against him, halting things temporarily to catch my breath and regain my composure, but always returning to the position next to him, offering myself for however long he intended. Soon (finally??) he slowed his strokes, landing a few final ones on the undercurve of my bottom, as I gasped and shuddered, floating on the high of my submission to him. His hands immediately calmed and stroked softly down my back and over my bottom.

“Come here,” he said simply, and I obeyed immediately, rising above him and fitting him into me, both of us so ready that it felt like a homecoming as I sank slowly onto him, allowing his hardness and heat to stretch me open slowly. We moved together, gently and then more urgently, as we both discovered only pleasure and not pain from our joining. He took my nipples into his mouth, soothing the tender tips and setting off fireworks behind my eyes. I couldn’t believe how GOOD he felt inside me, growing ever larger, stretching me past what felt possible- I was panting as he became near violence with his thrusts, holding me tightly and nipping at my neck and breasts.

“You’re going to mark me everywhere,” I whimpered, feeling the tiny tingling places in the wake of his teeth, knowing what my bottom and breasts must already look like.

“And that’s bad?” he inquired.

“No, it’s hot…” I murmured, as the realization hit me. Marks had always intrigued me, badges of honor that would remind me of my submission and endurance over the coming days- these would not be fading any time soon.

Before long, I could feel my long-delayed orgasm rising and spiraling, pulsing through me in echoes I could feel in the lines on my ass and my sensitive nipples. He rocked insistently beneath me, stiffening suddenly as we exploded together in a true, rare simultaneous orgasm… Gradually, I returned to myself, collapsed on his chest, feeling his heart beating in what felt like perfect synchrony to mine. I groaned and stretched, deliciously sore in every joint and muscle, in addition to the obviously raw skin of my bottom. I awkwardly disengaged myself and staggered towards the bathroom to dispose of the condom, uncertain that my legs would hold me up.

As I passed the mirror, I peered cautiously at my ass- it was as bad as I expected, and as bad as I’ve ever seen it. Bright pink from thighs to sacral dimples, with darker red/purple marking on the lower halves and underside of my buttocks, I knew there would be bruising by the morning. It felt swollen and hot to the touch, yet peace and satisfaction filled me as I tentatively ran my fingers over the welts. He did this for YOU, this is what YOU asked for, my brain whispered, not that I had any doubt… I turned and examined my breasts, but aside from feeling heavy and tender, they were mostly unmarked. My lips were swollen and red, but unmarked as well.

He emerged from the bedroom, peering at me as I pattered back to bed. “Are you OK?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, yes,” I replied softly, feeling as if it were true for the first time in a very long time. I pulled a t-shirt over my head, not believing I could tolerate the rasp of sweat pants on my tender backside yet, and crawled into bed with him. He pulled a bottle of lotion from the bedside table and applied a generous dollop to me, both burning and soothing me at the same time, and I melted under the ministrations. I felt heavily tired, completely physically and mentally exhausted, and we curled together, sleep overtaking me in moments. My last coherent thought was, “We HAVE to talk about this… What the fuck just happened?!?”


When I rose the next morning, a careful inspection of my bottom revealed the expected blue and purple bruising, most prominently on the lower part of my left buttock and near the crease. The hot shower water burned like fire, and I carefully avoided turning my back to the spray any more than necessary. I pulled a pair of boy shorts on and gasped at the pain even this simple action still caused. I was pleased that they covered the marking completely- no awkward explanations needed in the locker room at work, or excuses to be designed about why I must change into my scrubs in the bathroom.

He was still sleeping with abandon as I slipped out the door, preventing any need to discuss the events. The commute to work served several purposes: I contemplated the events (the heaviness in my breasts and aching soreness in my ass preventing me from believing I had dreamed it all) and analyzed his motivations behind it all. Had he finally heard me and understood? I could feel the calm submission to him already blossoming inside me- I was no longer frustrated and bereft, I was a wife who wanted to serve her husband. I spent the few open moments of the workday imagining how our life could be if real spanking became a regular staple in our relationship. The mild discomfort from my swollen, tight bottom reminded me each time I stood or sat- not pain, exactly, but an intense awareness and self-consciousness, as if everyone knew I had been whipped the night before. The constant low-level arousal it produced kept me humming internally all day long.

He called as I was driving home, and requested that I stop and bring him dinner, despite the fact that I had called and offered prior to stopping to pick up food for myself. Usually, this type of situation would irritate me to no end, making me believe him irresponsible. That night, I was happy to do so. When I brought it to him in the basement, I kissed him lingeringly, and made a move to kneel before him, intending to take him into my mouth and give him pleasure as I had been dreaming about all day (very unusual in our relationship now!). He halted me, giving the excuse that he had not showered since the gym, but promised to join me in bed shortly.

I waited for the 20 or so minutes until he arrived, apprehensive, wanting to broach the subject, but not sure how I would bring it up. Somehow, “Hey, what made you wear my ass out last night?” didn’t seem to be a good conversation starter. Instead, I curled onto my side as he slid into bed next to me, allowing him to pull me against him. He slid my PJs down slightly, gently caressing me without speaking. He gradually increased the pressure, pressing harder on the bruises, reigniting the subtle ache there. I felt as if he was acknowledging the experience, so decided to bite.

“What made you do that, last night?” I vaguely questioned.

He considered for a moment, then replied, “I was angry. Very angry.” It was said calmly, with no hint of irritation or annoyance, but I could not divine whether he was serious or not. He continued the slow, methodical stroking of my bottom, pausing here and there to compress the tender flesh, drawing small noises of discomfort from me. His hands slid up to my breasts, and I breathed heavily as he tugged and twisted on the pointed, aching nipples, which had not forgotten their mistreatment the night before.

“And that?” I pushed, wanting to know what had possessed him to suddenly introduce such an activity into our repertoire.

“You didn’t like it? It wasn’t OK?” he asked smugly, knowing the answer.

“No, I loved it; I just wanted to know where you got the notion to do it!” I said, a little too quickly, making him smirk with the revelation of how much I had indeed enjoyed it. He still hadn’t answered my questions, but had another intended purpose. He was plying my body to his needs, the combination of his gentleness and torture arousing me. Before long he had coaxed me up and over him, penetrating me deeply and moving carefully, my most private areas raw from our previous encounter. My nipples screamed as he sucked them, causing me to writhe above him- it had been years they had stayed so sensitive after sex, but even the friction of my bra had been noticeable all day long. He showed no mercy, biting them lightly and them more firmly as I begged for him to be gentle. The persistent rhythm of our joining and the easily rising arousal from his treatment of my breasts soon had me begging in another manner- this time for release. I couldn’t believe how effortlessly I was nearing orgasm, despite the tenderness I was feeling where we were connected- I had felt all day as if I had been battered internally with a blunt instrument, very nearly the truth!

He became more adamant beneath me, surging up into me and tightening his grasp on my hips, forcing us firmly together as he thrust powerfully into me, grazing my clit with each stroke. Soon, there was no mistaking his impending orgasm, and I allowed myself to join him, my walls fluttering around him in release. He pulled me to him and held me tenderly as I took inventory of the various sensations of my body- the intense but pleasurable aching of having just been thoroughly used, the tingling of my abused nipples, the soreness and warmth of my punished bottom. I felt replete and satisfied, despite having no more answers to my inquiry… yet suddenly, it did not matter. I had my lover holding me, meeting needs I can no more deny than I can choose to stop breathing. Why did not matter- only that we were there, together, and I am HIS… Sometimes, he really does know what I need.

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