It Only Hurts When I...

It hurts. How can I explain this?

I'm menstruating. It's gory and sometimes fascinating. There are gushes of red, red blood and sometimes chunks of brownish-red flesh. I have cramps. Some months they are mild, but this month they are sapping every ounce of my energy. The pain is less upsetting than my weakness, the way my mind slows almost to a halt. There's really nothing I can do but sleep or cry. But worst of all my cunt hurts. My vulva is swollen. It aches. I can feel my pulse beating, pushing against the ache. Where anything touches me between my legs, it burns. My pants are a torment.

When the cramps recede I can almost eroticize it. Maybe that's a way to make it easier to bear, I think, and I read a delicious story or two. Is it possible for me to be wetter? And then the story makes my pussy twitch and there's nothing sexy about the pain that results.

Or is there?

I might go read another just to make sure.

Fingerfucking like the first time

"I push one finger into you, " he says, "One finger, like the first time a boy ever finger fucked you--but with love pushing me along with lust."

This merging of the intensely dirty and the tender floors me. I imitate his imagined movements, trying to encompass both feelings, and cum in the gap in between.

Childhood Pornography

I imagine that title will attract some of the wrong sort of interest. Please read my disclaimer here if you have any doubt about my intentions.
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A recent conversation made me think about some of my early sexual experiences.

As a teenager I was molested by my stepfather. That's not an important admission. I've moved on. What I still puzzle over is how it did or did not form my sexuality. What I've concluded lately is that most of the transgressive things that interest me predated his interference. His influence was to inhibit my acceptance of my sexuality by adding layers of betrayal, guilt, and shame.

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The earliest sexual fantasies I recall were from when I was five or six years old. Every night I put myself to sleep with the same hypnotic narratives.

I was captured by evil witches, all dressed in black with tall, pointy caps. They forced my mouth open and pushed a bomb down my throat until I swallowed it. The bomb was round and black, a cartoon bomb. I imagined it was large. It made my stomach uncomfortably full. Then, as I struggled and screamed, the witches would make me swallow a lit match. The bomb would explode in my belly. And then they'd force my mouth open again. I was a fearful child. I disliked the dark. But I was not scared by this story. I was comforted and, in my innocent way, deeply aroused.

I alternated the witch fantasy with another. (Please don't read this directly after eating.)

My little six-year-old body was tied to a conveyor belt. There was funnel over my head going into my mouth. Something disgusting was poured into it, and I had to swallow, swallow, swallow. Then the conveyor belt moved me into the dark interior of a machine. Mechanical plates pressed rhythmically on my stomach, already roiling from the horrible substance I'd swallowed. As the conveyor belt continued, a bucket appeared beside me, and I turned my head to vomit. There were witches all around the machine, laughing evilly and crowing over my misery. The bucket was moved by robotic hands to a position over my head, and the funnel came into my mouth again. The disgusting substance this time was my own vomit. In the dark tunnel I vomited it up again. And round and round I went until I fell asleep in my trundle bed, contentedly clutching my Pooh.

As I grew older the fantasies became more explicitly sexual, but they never really changed in nature. I was confined, forced, and humiliated. There were often machines involved.

As a preteen I still included the witches but added boys or men to the stories. One I recall as a favorite involved being tied tightly to a man, both of us naked, our genitals aligned, left to wriggle in a public place. We could neither get apart nor get any satisfaction. The embarrassment of being on display only made my body more sensitive. In real life, as in my imagining, I had no idea what to do about it.

I have no idea where these imaginings came from. I was a happy child. They confirm for that my sexual character is simply part of my nature, as it would be if I were strongly homosexual. It's not important, I suppose. Just a thought.

Helping Hands

I had the cute trainer last week, not my usual guy. My usual guy is short and stocky and kind of taciturn. He enjoys making me suffer, and I enjoy his enjoyment, so we get along all right. But the guy who fills in for him - Davey - well, it's a whole different thing.

I lay back on the bench and Davey says, "Shoulders back, chest up," and I look up at his gorgeous face while I push my boobs in the air and he smiles.... And then he lifts a 50 lb weight over my head and expects me to let it down again. Negatives. We're doing all negatives today. I like them.

By the seventh or eight time lowering the weight I'm panting and groaning and feeling like I'm near some kind of crisis and I wish it were the kind that involves getting naked but it's not. Davey gives me a break at ten and then sets me up for leg presses. I lay down again, legs up in the air, feet braced on the bar. Davey stands at my head, ready to lift so I can lower. "Slow and controlled," he says. Slow and controlled. Does know how those words make me quiver?

He's 25 and beautiful and a personal trainer. Why would I think he'd want me? I'm breathing hard and sweating under a 100 lb bar. But anything is possible. "Knees out," he says, and my legs are spread up high and he can see my crotch - neatly covered in red work out pants, but still... if he leaned forward he'd catch a whiff of what this workout is doing to me. And maybe he does.

I imagine he does, anyway.

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The next day, sore from my workout, I arrange an early-afternoon massage with my regular guy. Like Davey, I find Evan dreamy. He's tall and strong and has a beautiful smile. Unlike Davey, I can't imagine him crossing the line. He seems too spiritual, the kind of guy who meditates with his wife and practices ejaculation control. I go to him strictly for massage and try to ignore his body. I imagine he thinks I'm uptight--I always wear panties for our sessions.  Evan's never done anything that has seemed inappropriate but I don't want to be distracted by his proximity.

It's normal massage. He asks if I could stay a little longer so he could do more work on my ever-painful hips. This isn't unusual - he often goes over our hour if he had the time. As usual when he worked on my glutes, he tucks my panties down a little. But today he asks me,  "Can I tuck these down or take them off?" I give some kind of verbal shrug, and he pushes them down under the sheet, then goes around to the bottom of the table and pulls them off.  Being undressed is sexy. I laugh and firmly turn my mind away from distracting thoughts. The last thing I want is to leave a wet spot on his table.

Evan works on my glutes and thighs. His fingers brush near my labia and I worry again that I might get aroused. I like what he's doing. His occasional intimate touches seem unintentional. "Do you want to roll over and I'll keep working from the other side?" he asks. Sure I do. He holds up the sheet for me, as always, so I can turn modestly and w/o entanglement.

"My mouth is all cottony," I say.

"I have my water bottle here," he offers, "or I could go get you a cup."

I don't want him to waste time getting water. I accept his bottle gratefully. And that's the moment I feel us cross into a new kind of intimacy. I've always loved to share other people's glasses. It's not exactly a kink, but it's something that makes me feel good. A man who knows me will take a sip and then hand the glass to me, with an indulgent smile. Drinking from Evan's water bottle makes me feel we are no longer just client and therapist.

He grins at me when he came back to the table. His blue eyes dance. "Do you want to start from the chest down or the belly down?" I'm not sure what he means. I'm thick, I guess. I suspect but not enough to put into words. "I don't know," I say, because I don't know what he means or what I want. "I think we'll start from your chest," he says.

His hands work my shoulders and sternum, moving under the sheet around my breasts under the sheets. Then he folds the sheet down to my stomach, fully exposing my chest. I'm surprised. Faintly self conscious. Is this really happening? His hands massage my breasts gently, thumbs grazing my nipples. "How does that feel?" he asks.

"Not exactly therapeutic," I answer.

"Do you want to go back to the therapeutic?" he asks. I look up at him, his kind, calm face far above me, his hands resting calmly on my arm.

No. I don't want to go back. "It feels good," I say. And his grin returns.

He comes around to the side of the table and slips a hand under my lower back, the other on my belly. I feel secure, held like that. Comforted. He moves a hand down and begins caressing between my legs, his fingers held together, petting me rhythmically. "Just let yourself go," he tells me. I feel like I'm floating. He moves his supporting arm under my shoulder and back. My chin rests against his shoulder and I breath in his scent. He find my clit and begins to move his fingers quickly, back and forth. My breathing quickens, first a little and then too much.

"You're making me dizzy," I say.

"Good," he answers, "Let yourself be with that dizziness."

This is something I've always liked about Evan. When I tell him something hurts or feels funny or tickles, he doesn't just back off. He'll say, "I'm working on the fascia around the nerve. I promise it will stop feeling that way in a minute." Or he'll say, "Stay with that. Go into that feeling." He might ask, "Hurts in a bad way?" but he doesn't automatically identify "It hurts" with "stop." This has made me trust him. I don't feel afraid that something I will say will have a negative effect on him. I am free to express anything.

My dizziness increases and then passes. His rhythm changes. I hum with pleasure. "Surrender to the energy," he breathes in my ear. "Let yourself surrender. Tell yourself, 'I surrender to the energy.'" He presses a long finger inside me. I surrender to the energy. I forget there are people in the hall and let myself moan. I snake an arm out from under him to cling to his shoulder. What a wonderful shoulder.
Muscular, covered in soft cotton. My desire flares high. I rest my cheek against his arm and let my legs spread and bend and move. I know he's whispering more words in my ear but  I don't know what they are. I am clinging to him and moving my hips and he is right there, right there with me, coaxing me, thrusting into me, holding me steady as the waves of orgasm crash over me again and again.


After a little while I let go, and he lets go. "I'm still here with you," he says, as he covers me up with the sheet. I shake and tremble and float.

He checks in w/me a couple more time and leaves me to dress myself. I look at myself in the mirror as I put on my clothes. I feel beautiful. What a shame to cover up my body.

I open the door again, and we talk a little. He's brought me a glass of water. "That was the most non-sexual sexual experience i've ever had," I say. He smiles at me, perfectly at ease. "That's good," he says, "I'd hope to hear that. I think there's energy and there's sex, and sometimes they are the same and sometimes they aren't."

But I remember his grin, and know better.

"Next time, we'll start fresh," he says. "We'll see where you are. We won't necessarily go in this direction." How freeing. I count out a pile of money for my next few sessions, and bid a friendly goodbye.

Centerpiece, Part 2

"It's time to get up," he said, untying my wrists. "You need a shower before our guests arrive." Oh no. I'd forgotten about dinner.

We were to have house guests for the weekend. I tried to remember what I could of them as I shampooed my hair and touched up my underarms' smooth shave. I thought he said he'd met them when he lived in Chicago, something about a bookstore... I have no memory for details, and it hadn't mattered at the time. But now I'd sound silly if I asked them basic questions.

Getting dressed, I remembered we also had local dinner guests, a couple I'd nodded to in the street since a brief introduction several months ago. I hadn't realized they were more than passing acquaintances until my Sir told me they'd be at dinner tonight. Six for dinner. I put on a black push-up bra, matching panties, and a simple black dress. I stayed barefoot, since we weren't going out.

My Sir had set the table while I showered and dressed. We'd made stewed white beans with tomatoes and a minted cauliflower dish that required nothing more than tossing together with hot pasta. In the hall I could smell a mouth-watering mixture of garlic and rosemary. I walked past the dining room towards the kitchen.  Would there be enough for six? Should I make a salad? And why was the table set only for five?

My Sir was in the kitchen, presiding over a steaming pot of orecchiette. He handed me a bowl of the beans. "Eat up," he said, "Our guests will be here soon."

Oh.
Oh dear.
What would I be doing while they ate? The things he'd said earlier suddenly made a little too much sense.

Still, I couldn't be sure. An extra bowl of beans before dinner was not so out of the ordinary. My diet was one of my Sir's more pervasive realms of control. Sometimes he'd push me to eat much more than I wanted, and other times deny me a meal entirely. He knew the miserable fog hunger put me in and had used it to take me to new distances of submission. He knew how requiring me to swallow when I was no longer hungry spoke to me of sex, of cock in my throat, of utter compulsion.

When I was away from him, I often ignored his dictums. Later, I'd regret it, as he denied me dinner on the strength of a mid-afternoon gluttony I'd skipped over. Did he know how little I heeded him when he was not around? I wished sometimes that he'd ask me more explicitly. "Did you eat the whole box of crackers? No? How many were left?" If he asked me I could tell him. I could be punished and pulled more tightly into his control. And yet I sometimes wondered if he did know, if his lack of inquiry was not in itself a punishment. Or simply a sign: he would not force me to come to him. I would have to submit of my own free will.

I thought of these things as I ate my soup, the garlic no longer seeming savory. The doorbell rang and we both went to greet the guests.

After a cheerful tumble of greetings and introductions, I went back to the kitchen to pour drinks. Unaware of the thinness of our walls, one of the guests asked my Sir, "So, how is it going with your Penny? She seems like a sweet girl."

My Sir, entirely aware of the thinness of our walls, replied, "She's been in the doghouse this afternoon, but I'm letting her out for a little while." There was laughter, and the feminine voice replied, but they'd moved on to the living room and I couldn't make out the words.

In the living room I passed around drinks and sat on my Sir's knee to chat about our guest's travels. They were charming and funny. My Sir's hand was firm on my hip. I felt myself relaxing. The oven timer went off in the kitchen, and the guests trooped into the dining room as my Sir and I worked together to pull the bread from the oven and toss the pasta and cauliflower. We moved easily around the kitchen together, a practiced team. I followed him out, carrying the cutting board, until a few steps into the room I stopped dead. My worst fear had been realized. There on the the table, where my plate ought to be, was the big pillow.

My sir walked back to me and took the bread board from my hand. "Go get undressed," he said quietly. I stood frozen. "Go get undressed and be back here before I count to ten," he said, in a louder voice. Conversation paused, as our guests turned from finding their seats and admiring the meal. I fled.

Undressed, I hesitated in the doorway. My Sir was looking away from me, chatting animatedly with his Chicago friends. I wasn't sure what to do. I didn't know how to stand or where to put my arms. It was an agonizing feeling. I felt a flash of anger at my Sir. Wasn't it his job to take all that uncertainty away from me? Just then he looked up at me and smiled. His eyes crinkled at the corners in the way that I love. He patted the pillow invitingly. I walked over to him without another thought.

My Sir stood up and took my hand. "Step up," he said, and helped me stand on my chair. Suddenly I was much taller than anyone in the room. My nakedness seemed multiplied times three. I kept my eyes on the table so I wouldn't see their faces. "On your pillow," my Sir told me. I knelt on the table, straddling the pillow, facing the guests. My Sir laughed. "The other way," he said. "Turn around."

Awkwardly, I shifted my body around to face him, the pillow clutched between my legs. He'd added an extra leaf to the table earlier, and the guests had shifted towards the head of the table. There was plenty of room for me at the foot. The foot, I thought. "Head down," said my Sir. "You know the position." Reluctantly, I lay down, knees spread wide, forehead on the table, hands behind my back. My hands were tied behind me by an unseen guest while my Sir continued to stand at my head. I could feel the cool air of the ceiling fan on my bared pussy. That, and the pressure of four pairs of eyes enjoying the sight of me splayed out before them.

My Sir shifted my head back so that I looked as far up at him as I could. I strained my eyes to see his face. He was not smiling anymore.

"Tell our guests while you're being punished."

The words stuck in my throat. All at once I went from feeling severely embarrassed to feeling frantic. I twisted my wrists against whatever bound them and tried to sit up. My skin felt hot, prickly hot all over. A kind of gurgling growl escaped me. The only thought in my head was the need to escape. A hand lifted me cruelly by the hair and a sharp slap landed on my face. The tension drained out of my body and I began to cry.

"Tell our guests while you're being punished," repeated my Sir, in the same calm tone as the first time.

My words came out as sobs. "I masturbated without permission."

"And what else?"

"I came without permission," I choked out.

"Good girl," said my Sir, and he stroked my hair gently. He raised his voice to speak to our guests. "Help yourselves to food, don't let it get cold!" There were sounds of spoons clinking and conversation I ignored. My whole attention was focused on my Sir.

You may have noticed I didn't call him Sir out loud. He never asked me to call him anything. At first I had taken this as a sign of his respect for me. More recently, I'd begun to wonder if it wasn't another thing he waited for me to accept freely. "My Sir," I called him in my head, making it more of a pet name than a position of status. I often longed to add Sir to the end of answers I gave him, but a sense of embarrassment kept me from it. He was sure to notice, and be pleased, and praise me, and then I'd have to do it all the time, and it would be a whole big thing.... It would be like telling my mother I'd got my period and having her throw a big red-themed party and invite all my friends.

Now, as his hand smoothing my hair held my entire consciousness suspended, afloat in his care, the name My Sir was like a purr, humming low beneath my breath. He kissed the back of my head and I sank more deeply into my posture. Why had I ever resisted him?

My relaxation lasted only a moment, as he moved around to the other end of my body. His hand brushed over my exposed labia. I shivered. His finger found my clit,and began to make slow circles. I could hear him talking casually with his friends, but the words were lost on me. I was aware that I was already dripping wet. Fear grew with my arousal. He rested his other hand on my back, under my bound hands. I tried to calm my breath. He spread wetness over my clit and dipped his fingers in my cunt. I groaned and moved against the pillow. And then I felt him move away.

The rest of the meal seemed to go on forever. My Sir chatted and laughed with his friends, but I could sense his attention was never far from me. There was good red wine at the table and someone asked if I might be allowed some. I didn't hear the answer. I was overwhelmingly aware of my position. There was my physical position: my body, awkwardly tied and arranged, helpless to rise without assistance; my arousal, which rose and fell in waves; my nipples, hard against the pillow; my forehead, creased by the edge of the table. And then there was my emotional position: my pretended submission, adopted only when it suited me; my longing to be mastered, to give myself wholly; my awareness that the man who had placed me here knew exactly what I gave him, that he never doubted I was his, even when I tried as hard as I could to believe otherwise.

These thoughts, or the shape of them, stayed in my head even as my Sir got up again and returned to my side. He stroked my sopping pussy slowly, almost idly. "You're a horny little girl," he said to me, voice disconcertingly kind. "You don't want to give me control. You imagine it's yours to give." His fingers circled and pressed and slipped around my clit. My legs shook. "Show our guests," he said. One finger inched its way inside me, and then two. I moaned and shifted. "Show our guests just how much control you have." My hips bucked against the pillow. His fingers withdrew. "Yes," he said, "That's it. Cum for our guests." I was too far gone to make any pretense of resistance. I growled and panted and thrust, tormented by the pillow's softness. "Horny little girl," he said again, and the utter humiliation of it only drove me on. A hand smacked my ass, urging me forward. My head slipped off the edge of the table. "Faster," he said, and gasping, sliding, I writhed and strove, until his hands caught my shoulders and I spasmed and shook and shuddered and came.

There was laughter, and a smattering of applause. My head was pressed against my Sir's abdomen. He was keeping me from toppling. Unknown hands grasped my hips and pulled me back onto a secure position on the table. I heard the rumble of my Sir's thanks through his belly. He was still holding my shoulders. "Good girl," he said. "Rest there, now."

He and the guests trooped off to the living room. I rested.

Centerpiece, Part 1

There I lay, knees spread apart over a big pillow, face against the mattress, hands firmly tied behind my back. I knew I was dripping on the pillow, soaking through the case and into the stuffing. I worry about that kind of thing. I wished he'd put a towel over it. Could I ask him? I could not. I'd already annoyed him enough for one day.

He'd caught me, earlier, in the most compromising of positions. I mulled over my mistakes. That was why I was being left there, dripping and exposed, wasn't it? To think about the error of my ways? I considered if the error was waiting too long to cum, so that I was soaking wet by the time he got out of his shower, or in using the towel instead of simply hiding the damp marks among the sheets.

Most times, I would say having a gushing-wet pussy is a positive attribute - my Sir certainly seems to enjoy it - but every now and then it gets me in trouble. I was just deciding that probably my mistake was to have been too loud, when I heard his footsteps behind me.

"So, Penny," he said sternly, "Have you thought about why you are  going to be punished?" Suddenly all thought of flippant answers left my head. He might have liked to hear them. He might have laughed. But most likely he had a whip in his hand, and most likely he would have enjoyed further reasons to use it.

"I masturbated without permission," I said meekly. My pussy throbbed and my thighs trembled, expecting my punishment.

"Is that all?" he asked, voice even. Oh no. The noise had been my mistake. He knew exactly what I'd done.

"I came without permission," I muttered.

Of course he made me repeat it. Louder. Twice.

His cool hand touched my ass, making me jump. His fingers grazed the inside of my thigh. Cold. I shivered as his hand moved upwards, fingers dipping gently into the heat between my legs. "Sooo wet," he murmured. A finger brushed my swollen clit and I jumped again, crying out.

I felt like sobbing, really. I didn't like that I'd let my Sir down. I wondered how the rules that seemed silly when no one was there to see could feel so absolute in his presence. I was ready for his punishment. I wanted it. I'd let us both down, him and myself. I needed expiation.

Instead, he moved his fingers lightly around my clit, moving the hood, pressing below and above, until it took all my self control not to buck out of position. "Yes," he said, his hand withdrawing. "Yes, that's exactly how I want to see you tonight."

I lay still, trying to catch my breath. What did he mean?

"It's time to get up," he said, untying my wrists. "You need a shower before our guests arrive." Oh no. I'd forgotten about dinner.

Inspiration

I don't suffer from writer's block. I suffer, sometimes, from lack of inspiration. My fantasies don't come out of nowhere, though at times it's seemed that way.

Inspiration comes to me in two ways. Laying in bed when I'm well rested enough not to just drift off again. Maybe in the morning, sun high in the sky, no reason to move except when my fantasies drive my hands between my legs, and later to the keyboard. Maybe at night, going to bed early on purpose to play with my toys and tease myself to distraction. Or other times when my eyes can close: on an airplane; laying in the grass on a sunny day...

Second, in the form of a character. A real person who flirts or is simply deeply desirable. A man who gets far enough inside what makes me tick to catch in the gears, so I stutter and slow. A storyteller who enmeshes me in his daydreams until I spin off on my own tangent.

Since I acquired charge of a small child, the first form of inspiration is extremely rare. These days I tend to devote myself tenaciously to sleep whenever I have the opportunity. Ten hours a night would not be to many.

The second... well, I haven't had much time for that, either. But I ought to make time. There's nothing more energizing than an amusing conversation with someone desirable. Not even 10 hours of sleep.