As I was turning over (I think, sometimes I’m not sure of the sequence of things) he took me by the shoulders and laid me down decisively. It was nice, like falling. I like the part of fire where I’m on my back because I can see what’s going on and watch the pretty flames. He said it hurts more if you watch, but it really doesn’t hurt much. He said the flames burn prettier on some bodies than on others. How it looks is: he has two wands, one with the fire and one soaked in alcohol. He runs the alcohol over me in whatever design he wants and lights it—the flame only burns for a second but it is bright blue and so pretty. There’s something about it that makes me feel like a princess. This time, he took off his shirt and held my hand to his heart.
All the while I was giggling, smiling, having a great time. “What is this sub-space you speak of?” he laughed.
“What, you can’t giggle in sub-space?”
“Huh. I’m learning things from you already. Okay, you can giggle in sub-space.”
I’m really disturbed by the idea that a submissive would always have to have a serious/ecstatic/pained expression. What does that say about my role in the proceedings? Shouldn’t I be here to have fun? Anyway, anyone looking for all-serious-expression-all-the-time would be severely disappointed with me.
He put my foot on his shoulder and made the flames climb up my leg, trying for different swirls and patterns. (“See, this is why I shaved.” he said.) After that, he made plumes. That’s when he mists the alcohol and lights it, about eight inches above my skin. I guess people don’t usually look during this part, but I did. He was delighted by the giggly/scared expressions I made, by the way my body contorted when I startles and half-shielded my eyes.
He warmed his hand and placed it at the bottom of my neck-the fire-kiss. He lit and snuffed the flame again and laid it on the mound of my vagina, and that felt very soothing. “You can do that for at least twelve more hours.” I said.
“But then I wouldn’t have time for anything else…”
He growled and attacked my boobs, sucking hard on the right nipple and playing with the left one. That was the first time I really groaned for him, I couldn’t help it, yelping cries, I thought about Wonder Woman overhearing them and wondered how soundproof this basement is—my guess is, a lot to very.
I sat up on the table and kissed him—he was hard underneath his jeans and I wanted him between my legs. We kissed gently and sweetly and then it was time to get spanked some more. He told me to lean over the table on my elbows and I gladly did. He said:
“Here’s what you have to do for me. If you’re going to come, you have to say, please, Sir, may I come. The sentence has to have “please” and “Sir” and “come” in it.”
“Okay.” I said. This information seemed a bit premature, but I filed it away just in case.
He got a nice spanking rhythm going. To avoid the possibility of me getting distracted by the music, he’d chosen unobtrusive massage music, and he spanked to the rhythm of that. It was pretty funny. I laughed for most of the time but got serious-happy whenever he told me to spread my legs a little wider. My feet kept sliding along the carpeted floor; it was hard to stay upright. That was making me a little shaky. I guess It was a good workout.
He asked if he could leave a handprint on each cheek and I said of course he could. He told me to inhale deeply and when I exhaled, there came the pain. The really hurty parts aren’t my favorite, but I don’t mind them.
There was part where he was sort of ramming his clothed self into the back of me. It was a little embarrassing, kind of reminded me of the bathroom scene in secretary—okay, humiliating.
Once I was standing again, the hardest part of the scene happened. He said, “I have job for you.”
“Okay, what can I do?”
Get that bowl of condoms over there and set it on the table. Oh-kaaaay…
“Now I want you to put the condoms on these.” and presented me with a Ziploc freezer baggie full of sex toys.
I wanted to cry. I think maybe I should have stopped the scene right there. Because, dude! You think I’m too dirty to put my sex toys in!? I looked it up and it’s a pretty common safer-sex practice, but it still seemed creepy as fuck. Maybe the fact that a Ziploc of machinery was coming at me an hour into a first date exacerbated the situation.
The other reason I wanted to cry is that I felt small and overwhelmed and inexperienced—I hadn’t put a condom on ANYTHING since the early Nineties. MKT and I always use them, but he always puts them on. I’ll have to remember to have him show me how next time, assuming my sex drive comes back at some point.
I didn’t say any of that; I just said I wasn’t ready. “Not even for this little one?” he asked, brandishing a little silver bullet like the one Sweetie and I have at home.
I don’t know if he could tell how scared I was or how hurt I was determined to be brave and have fun, and there was SO MUCH MORE fun to be had.
Next: “Wash Your Hands,” Pretty Blue Ropes.
