It’s time to sing the praises of Friends Who’ll Hit Me With Stuff, and also to get more of them. Yes, I want romance, I want to be adored and rabidly pursued, I want to have a Dom who’s at the party for the sole purpose of yanking my hair around, but until Boyfriend Guy comes along and/or I’m in a playspace with Mr. Sweetheart, it’s helpful to just get on with my life and appreciate a good walloping for its own sake.
Saturday night was everything I’d hoped it would be: I played with Sweetie, hugged friends, I stood around in Wonder Woman posture with my ropes on feeling invincible. But something was missing. My scenes with Sweetie are always wonderful, but they are about feeling quiet, all princessy and soft and snoozy with my ass in the air and my hair draped over the edge of the kneeler. I enjoyed it but when we were finished I needed something louder, meaner, dirtier. I don’t think I’ve ever come out and said this before, but I needed a sadist.
The only guy there who I knew and trusted enough to play with was Old Timey Guy and I wasn’t sure if he would have time to fit me in. As always, I loved watching him play with Punk Rock Girl, and when they were done, he was in social butterfly mode, which I always feel reluctant to interrupt. I didn’t want to pester him but Sweetie was all “Just ask him! Tell him specifically that you need to be flogged.”
He was talking a couple through what looked to be their first flogging scene—his face was all lit up from the joy of being teacherly and he was covered in sweat from his own scene. When I got a chance to ask him, I asked him:
“Can I be the next thing that you do?”
He laughed and gave me some little spanks and then flitted off to do some more stuff.
“You weren’t specific enough.” said Sweetie. (Sweetie’s never met Steampunk Guy, but they seem to be in a conspiracy to make me a braver asker. Begrudgingly I’m grateful.)
After assisting him with giving a new girl a shrink wrap corset (I love that he sees a shrink-wrap gun and thinks “Let’s do this to people!”) I was sad to see that he went over to clear his stuff off the cross he’d been using earlier. At that point I indulged in some fairly unnecessary pouting until he said:
“Just because I don’t have a cross doesn’t mean I can’t flog you. Ohlook! Here’s a chair! straddle it!”
The few other times I’ve played with Old-Timey Guy, Punk Rock Girl was a big part of the pleasure of it—she’d egg him on and help me get into my shackles—so I was sad that she’d gone home early but was still so excited to play.
Sweetie was sitting only a few feet away and I wondered if I should send her to the bar or something so she wouldn’t get jealous or worry, but she seemed excited to watch me be all ridiculous so I kept her near.
Anyway, back to me, in ropes, little purple lace pajama bottoms, and of course my Hello Kitty nipple tape, straddling and red and black banquet chair. He lewdly pressed himself against my back, growling just a little. He ran his hand gently through my hair and as soon as I was all purry-relaxed YANKED UP on the crotch rope with its knots in the right places so that I let out an “Eeek!” and a tumble of laughter. Though we’ve only known each other about a year, it was like hanging out with an old pal. A really nicely filthy old pal.
I put my head down on the back of the chair and he took out a really scary-looking switch—long, skinny, hard with a tiny little tab on the end. I got scared because I usually go for thuddy rather than stingy, and I knew this would sting like a motherfucker. He ran it over my back, across my neck, back and forth on my wet crotch, right where it counts. He yanked me up by my ropes and thwacked, making me wiggly, hot, and screamy. I yowled and he said
“I told you of it hurt too much you had to give me jazz hands!”
“And I didn’t give you jazz hands!”
There’s one toy in his kit that I kind of think of as mine, even though it isn’t. He bought it (and hit me with it) the day I met him and it’s appeared in this story before-a pretty little cane with a blue ceramic star on the end.
“You’re the only one who gets happy when I take this out.”
As before, he tried to leave a star-shaped mark, hitting lightly and counting down to the hard smack, then trying to surprise me on the other cheek. It equally fucking hurt both ways. The cuteness of the star sure doesn’t stop it from stinging the bejeezus out of me, it hurts so badly and I just love yelling about it. I should probably stop trying to say that I’m not a masochist.
He flogged me like I’d asked. It felt good on my back but he wasn’t quite getting the right angle on my bum—I switched to kneeling on the chair with my hands on the back of it. He spanked me so hard that I started to scream-laugh, loving the heck out of the sound of my own voice. There’s such a happy release in those screams, letting them out to be themselves in front of everyone. It’s not exaggerating to say it makes my heart leap.
“That’s what you get!” said Sweetie.
Yes! Yay! It’s what I get.
Next came a paddle. By then a friend of mine had come over near us to get her aftercare, and I apologized for hollering so close to her face, but she seemed perfectly happy and joined in the handful of onlookers cheering us on.
He asked what else I wanted and I asked for the big strap, my very favorite. First he put it around me and pulled me against him, wiggling against my back in such a nice lascivious way. He tried to put it around my neck, which, forget it. Other than getting smacked with the strap, the best was when he wrapped it around my wrists, held my hands in the air in front of me, and tickled my underpins so I’d shriek and squirm and laugh. Don’t know why he’s the only one I like tickles from, probably because he brings out the little bit of little in me.
After the strap came the soft little flogger that he has just because it won’t leave marks on boobs. It was actually kinda fun. I’d tell Steampunk Guy to make note of this, but he only reads the posts that he stars in.
Speaking of Steampunk Guy, I had to mentally high-five him for the amount of fun I was having. He tends to (vexingly) make me ask a whole bunch of times for stuff—I’ve almost learned to stop seeing shame in pursuing what I want, even if I have to ask more than once. This seems like a good step, so thanks pal-who’s-not-reading-this…
Once the scene was done, I pulled Old-Timey Guy into a sweaty hug, thanked him profusely, put my aftercare pajamas on over my ropes, and walked out of there feeling like Wonder Woman. Remember, this was a place I was afraid I could never go back to! There’s just nothing like going home knowing that I’ve gotten myself what I wanted.