Birthday Spanks and Unicorn Snuggles Part Two: Welcome Me Back to Subspace!

Earlier in the party (admittedly right around the time I got a little bit high) I’d told Cute Master I was going to try and get 39 birthday spanks from each person at the party—one of my better ideas I have to say, right up there with that hair-pulling contest back in May. Somehow chatting with the Cutest Boy at the Party evolved into him helping me recruit the first spankers.

I started out bent over the arm of one of the two leather couches while spectators sat on the other one and on the other side of the room, egging the spankers on and, at first, counting to 39.

Spanker: “How many was that?”

Onlooker: 28?

Me: “Two!”

I made that joke a lot of times.

The young lady who’d made the “dumbasses” comment earlier volunteered and I can’t really explain why I let her except that it felt okay to do so. Physical trust is a strange thing sometimes, but by I know by now how to listen to my body about people. I’m glad I did because it was over her knee that I felt a sort of inner dimmer switch. A calm came over me and a happy haze descended. Aaaahhhhhh.

At this point, my skirt was pulled up and my underpants pulled down. I still had my shirt and bra on and my hair was draped all over. I sighed into the arm of the couch, feeling like a sleepy movie star and said “I’m getting all well-behaved.”

“Are you?” She sounded surprised and proceeded to take her hurty turn.

When the young lady was finished, it was the Huge Handed Fireman’s turn, and I was thrilled when he asked if I wanted to go over his knee. Ohmygoodness those hands—they’re strong but soft and sort of magically cool to the touch. He didn’t hurt as much as the other spankers did; it was more like he struck a good note. He was just right at holding me down, too—he has such a long reach, I felt like a deftly handled piano. The Cutest Boy at the Party came over and sat at my feet, took off my shoes, held my legs down, and tickled the back of my knees. I wiggled and shrieked and HHF held me down harder.

I have to stop and high five myself for being held down by two of the most desirable characters at the party. Go me!

When HHF was done spanking, he ran his hands soothingly over my back. I took off my shirt to make it easier for him and to add to the nice humiliation I was feeling. I told him I was leaving my bra on for the time being and he used that as an excuse to cop a feel. Ohthosehands. I want them all over me some more.

I didn’t want him to go away and he blessedly didn’t. He acted as a human spanking bench, holding me down for the other takers. I would have stayed in his big warm lap all night if I could’ve. Sometimes he held my head down and I couldn’t see who was doing the hitting—I’d just notice a pair of shoes and try to remember whose they were later on.

Cute Master came in with a nasty crop, stingy as fuck and I screamed my head off. The screaming is so much of the fun, though I suppose I could’ve asked one of these nice big hands over my mouth. I tried to reach back and grab the crop away but I didn’t say red.

“Oh, I see now, so you’re a pain freak,” said HHF, and though I’ve always argued that I’m not, this time I sighed and said “Um, yeah. I can tell by how calm I feel in the days after.”

One thing I loved about being spanked by so many people was that submissives joined in too—one of the best sets of spanks came from the lady I’d bonded with on the couch during my blanket time. When I texted her a “Good job!” the next day, she could not have been prouder.

Once everyone in the room had had a turn, the Cutest Boy at the Party went through the house to see if there were any more takers. These guys really know how to make a birthday bottom feel special. I thought it was probably time to be all the way naked. HHF reached in my bra and started pulling my boobs out, but I asked him to unhook my bra for me. Can bra hooking and unhooking be a fetish? I just love that part so much.

Cute Master came back in and made me get up from my nice spot on the sofa. He pulled an ottoman into the middle of the room and then directed me to kneel over it, arch my back, and stick my ass out in such a way that everything was exposed—all the way submissive. Fully clothed, he draped himself all the way over my body and rubbed his cock against my ass. Pretty Slave had told me he was huge, and she was not wrong. Someone apologized for the fact that all this was happening to the tune of “SexyBack,” but I couldn’t have been happier with the song choice.

Speaking of Pretty Slave, she came and sat in a chair in front of me, stroked my hair, held my hands, and made soothing noises. I let out a gasp and a groan and lay all the way flat, getting exactly what I wanted, the humiliation of everyone watching, the heat and smell of him, the loveliness of her. He started hitting my hard on my now-tender behind, to the point where I was now scream/crying but still not telling him to stop. He was ruthless, growling and snarling and whaling on me until he stepped on my foot wrong and it sort of broke the mood.

It sort of boggles my mind how this all felt perfectly safe. I felt a deep assurance in my ability to say no, I guess, and a basic trust of the hosts, but it still feels like an enormous leap of faith to offer my ass to that many people, many of them strangers. Putting my faith in my instincts and in the basic good of the crowd seems a little crazy, but it worked.

Next: The Cutest Boy at the Party Gets Aftercare Duty (Because He’s a Giver!)

Real Date/ Car Sex With Steampunk Guy Part Three: Thanks, Pal

As I was on my knees next to him kissing him in a fit of post-panic second-wind lust, his hand went up my skirt and inside the back of my underpants. “Hmm, let’s see, how’s your ass doing?”

“Yes. Yesyesyes,” is how it was doing. This time I wasn’t self-conscious, just gave over to the sensation of it and tried not to exclaim too loudly, but jeez, goodness, he was hitting the spot. Let us now praise the summer of my ass.

He told me to face away from him and sit in his lap so I maneuvered myself behind the passenger’s seat and did so. Car sex with a guy is just as awkward as I’d imagined it would be, but also just as hot. I sat down and pushed his cock into my pussy and groaned and sighed. It was hard to get a good angle to push back against him but I stopped caring about that for a little while because oh my goodness his finger was in my ass, further and further in and oh the catharsis of it, the absolute happiness. He pushed into me hard and I bent all the way over and braced myself against the passenger’s seat, hugging it, almost bent in half. Jesus Christ, I was thirsty and sweaty and tear-stained and newly divorced but this? This was exactly right. Sometimes I’m awesome at life in spite of myself.

I pulled away to take a breath and my head got pushed down to him again—more of him being too big, pushing the limits if what my throat could handle, making me feel full and debased and whoreish and scared and wonderful.

He put the seats down so that I could lay down on my belly the way I like, held my shoulders down and fucked me, the car bouncing cartoonishly, the whole world back-and-forth, sweat and fireflies and hazy suburban stars.

Afterwards it was too hot to cuddle much so we lay back and chatted. His hand wandered over to my boob and it felt so good that I almost reached down to finish myself off again (I did that when I got home. Twice.) (Note to Steampunk Guy: More good old-fashioned feeling-up, please. If it’s not too much trouble.) but he was getting his clothes back on. He helped me find my very damp underpants and I wriggled back in to them and lay back down. My sweaty hair was hanging off the end of the pulled-down seats. I was all flushed and content like I’d just been in the ocean. I asked for one more hug and he laid on top of me and smushed me instead-perfect.

Then we drove around. This was a town he used to live in. He drove me past his old barracks and told me about the family of ducks that used to live behind his old apartment. When we stopped at a convenience store for water and Junior Mints, I realized I was having trouble walking and that my hair was a spectacular mess.

I told him the story of why I’m protective of my voice, but it didn’t hold much power in that moment. Now that I knew I was capable of fighting back, of a well-placed “Fuck you,” I had a little more faith in myself and the trauma of all those years ago seemed like the tiny part of my life that it is. Thanks pal.

The Sparkly Festival of Awesomeness, Part Seven: All the Nice Getting Held Down

(I doodled this while I was on the phone with Mr. Sweetheart. Not sure why all of my doodles end up vagina-shaped…)

***This is the very first correction I’ve ever posted (no, he didn’t ask me to) and maybe the best correction ever: Says Mr. Sweetheart: “I have never once, in all my life, worn underwear under my kilt.” Noted! Sosorry.***

And now back to the tent: I was pleased and flattered by their pillow talk. Mr. Shiny Eyes told me that I feel really good to him and that my insides have nice contractions. He said we should spend more time together and I was happily surprised to hear him say that. They went back and forth a little bit about who lives further away, and by how much, and I reminded them that I’m off all summer. So who knows!

Then we played my favorite favorite FAVORITE (even more favorite than Apples to Apples) game: “What if I tried to get away?’ I tried to wiggle out from between them and they descended on me, holding my whole body down with theirs. Sometimes every limb was pinned! Sometimes in these kinds of situations I try to resist, but the struggling is really part of the fun. In this case, it wasn’t so much wrestling as it was futile attempts to fight a blanket of strength.

There’s such a relief that comes from being held down lovingly, a transcendence to it, like I’m kicking all of my fears’ asses and ironically like I can take a break from the day-to-day struggle of being alive. The relief and joy came from my trust in them and the aliveness and safety of it-of knowing that I won’t just float up off the earth.

(Sweetie has a similar explanation for why I like ropes so much—I don’t have to hold myself together for that little while, so I can just relax.)

(My sense of my own existence has always been a little fragile, if that makes any sense at all.)

It was almost time for Mr. Sweetheart to fuck me, but the game continued. He placed himself between my legs and held my arms down by the wrist. He is wiry-strong like an animal. I told him not to leave bruises that my students would notice and he loosened up his grip a little but pressed down with his arms all the more so there was still no way that I could’ve gotten away. (Unless, of course, I wanted to.)

As I pulled and strained, his heart beat fast against my stomach. That stopped time a little, the perfect closeness of it.

Then he leaned up and got the condom on. While he was doing that, Mr. Shiny Eyes played with my clit, and my ridiculous moans started up again. Sex with Mr. Sweetheart was slow and warm. At one point he said “Well, this is lovely.” and that it exactly what it was. I looked up into his face and felt safe and known, in exactly the right place.

Mr. Shiny Eyes looked, petted, and complimented. He’d found himself a flavored condom and I gave it a try. I was so happy to have his dick in my mouth, but not so happy with the artificial vanilla flavor. He rearranged himself so that I could reach to squeeze with my hand instead.

Here’s my (entirely unsurprising) confession: While Mr. Sweetheart was inside me, the warmth spread all the way up to my heart and I got feelings for him. It’s just that fast sometimes and just that simple. I knew it might be a what-happens-at-the-festival-stays-at-the-festival situation. I was and am ready to let the experience stand on its own. But part seven, friends, is where I get attached, where I started to hope that more would happen. And since we’ve been in touch almost every day since, maybe it already has.