Nick and I are both writers. So often, when we’re making love or having sex of any variety–hot, passionate, rough, playful–we whisper stories to each other. Before Nick, I never thought about the joy being a writer could add to my under-the-cover world. Or on top of the covers. Or on the living room floor. Or in the kitchen. Or for that matter, as in the following story, in a broom closet.
Last night, Nick fulfilled his promise of being The Dom. His preference is to be The Submissive, but I’m lucky to have a man who likes variety. And, he’s oh, so good at both.
But in the days preceding last night, he had been tantalizing me with stories of how he planned to dominate me. Spank me. Fuck me with Clive. (Junior, that is. One day I’ll tell you the story of Clive Senior.)
Lucky for me, Nick is a kind Dom, at least starting out. First, he drew a hot bath for me. Well, at least he tried. Come to find out, he’d used all the hot water on his shower only moments before. Still, I got into the tepid tub. As he drew the washcloth up and let the water drip over my naked body, I felt my nipples harden. Goosebumps tickled all over me. He told me to lay down in the water, and though I was freezing, my mind filled with images of all the naughty things he might do to me as I lay before him. But when he saw me shivering, he laughed, held up a warm towel, and told me to get out. See? A benevolent Dom.
We climbed into bed together, and the Dom Game began with wet, biting kisses, until he said, “I want you to suck my cock, then my balls.” Something in his raspy, hard command turned me on and I obeyed.
I’ve sucked a few cocks in my life, but what I haven’t done before is suck on a man’s balls. It drives Nick crazy. I love to find one of his elusive balls (they always try to get away) and put it in my mouth, swirl it over and around with my tongue, plop it in and out of my mouth. Nick writhes, hovering between ecstasy and pain. Now, he may have been The Dom last night, but I’m pretty sure at that moment I was on Top.
Still, I played along.
“Now,” he whispered, “Take your forefinger and put it in my ass.”
Okay, admittedly, I though, “Huh?” I even made a bit of an excuse. “But, I have a long nail on my forefinger.”
“That’s okay,” he replied. “Just do it.”
Well, if I was to keep in character, I had to obey. No, I’d never had my finger in a man’s ass before, and I have to say, it kind of reminded me of a diary entry I’d read to Nick the night before–an entry from my high school years, when I described some of the sexual escapades I’d encountered with my first love as “gross.” But, I’d told Nick I was open to at least trying just about anything. So, onward! I put some warming jelly on my forefinger . . . and inserted.
Wow. Warm. Velvety. Tight. And there is nothing–nothing–like hearing that kind of ecstasy come from the man I love. I moved my finger in and out, all around. I kissed his balls, sucked on his cock.
After a few minutes, he said, “Now, roll over.”
When he picked up his cell phone, I wondered what he was up to. “Start playing with yourself. If you don’t cum by the time this timer goes off, I’m adding five more swats to your spanking.”
Huh? I thought again. We were already up to 25 on each side. Why 25? That seems to be a minimum required number of swats that Nick said he read somewhere. Frankly, I think he made it up.
So, I masturbated, fast and furious, trying to focus on the feeling and not the clock. Like a Chinese water torture, he began to tick off how much (or how little) time I had left. My bottom began to sting with my imaginings of my inevitable spanking.
“You’ve got ten seconds . . . nine . . . eight,” he whispered menacingly.
I started to pant. My back arched. I was close. So close.
“Five . . . four.”
There it was, in the nick of time. A swelling inside me that made me cry with pleasure and relief. Brief relief, that is.
“Okay,” he said. “Now, do it again. And this time in less time.”
“What?” I rebuffed. “I already did it once.”
“You’d better quit arguing and get busy. The clock is ticking. Five more spankings if you don’t beat the clock. I’ll help you this time,” he said and reached for Clive Jr.
Then, he kissed and bit my nipples. Teased me with his fingers. Then, fucked me with Clive Jr. while I massaged my clit with my fingers.
But, there was not enough time, and I was pretty sure he’d set up an impossible task, with the expectation that he’d get to add more swats to the 25 he’d already promised me.
“You didn’t cum. Time for your spankings. Because you’re a naughty girl. Now, bend over the bed and take your 35 spankings.”
I calculated in my head. Thirty-five? Where did that come from? I wanted to argue with him, because I was sure it should only be 30. But, I also knew that to argue with The Dom would surely mean he’d add another 5 at least. So, I kept my mouth shut.
He ran his hands over my bottom, softly, warmly. But I anticipated his slaps and at every unexpected movement, I tensed, until, at last, it came–the first swat, hard and stinging.
“Count them,” he ordered.
“One. Two. Three. Four. Five,” I whispered, as he swatted the right side.
“Again,” he said.
And I repeated the count on the left side.
Again, his warm hand massaged my reddened cheeks, then moved between my legs, found my sex. “You’re wet,” he said. “You must like this, you bad girl. You’re nothing but a little slut, aren’t you?”
Okay, a bit of author intrusion here. This was the first time he’d called me a slut. On one hand, a tiny voice inside me thought, “How can he call me a slut? He loves me.” On the other hand, I thought, “This is a game. And besides, haven’t you always wanted to be called a slut? It DOES turn you on. Go with it.”
It’s the same thing I ponder about the spankings. These aren’t “play” spankings. They really, really hurt. We do have a safe word, but I’ve yet to use it. Call me stubborn. Call me competitive. But so far, I’ve refused to use the word, no matter how much he’s hurting me.
But as I cried out my count, the question kept coming up in my head–how can he hurt someone he loves? I’m not divulging any secrets to you here. Nick knows this question goes through my head–we’ve talked about it. I don’t necessarily ask the question to get him to stop. It DOES turn me on. And it turns me on to cause him a bit of pain when I spank him — even spank his balls. But, being a person who thinks all the time –perhaps way too much–I still have to wonder:
Why does causing pain to someone we love turn us on?
By swats 25 through 35, I was squeaking out my count. It hurt a damn lot. But no way was I going to use my safe word. Hell no.
So. Where does the broom closet come in? Right here.
When Nick finished disciplining me for my naughtiness, he told me to confess–said that if he believed my confession, he might not spank me again.
And so, as he held me close, I whispered into his ear, my confession about the story of the broom closet:
It started when Mr. Hamilton took me by the arm and said I was in trouble. He told me I had to go to the janitor’s broom closet with him.
I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I also had always been told to respect my elders. So I followed him.
Well, he shut the door and turned off the light. He told me to get down on my knees. My heart raced when I heard him unzip his pants. I was scared, because I knew what was going to happen.
All of a sudden, something hard and hot pressed against my lips.
“Open your mouth,” he said.
I pursed my lips. No way.
“Open them, I said.” And he pressed harder. Pulled my hair.
So I parted my lips. As he shoved his . . . you know . . . inside my mouth, I tasted something bitter and salty. Then, he grabbed my head and shoved his cock in and out of my mouth, until suddenly, he moaned and my mouth filled with that salty, bitter taste.
“That’s a good girl,” he said. “And you swallowed. Yes, you’re a very good girl.”
After I finished my story, I looked up at Nick and asked, “So, if Mr. Hamilton said I was a good girl, why are you spanking me for being a bad girl?”
“Because you should be in the closet only with me,” answered Nick.
And so, guess who has a date in my broom closet tomorrow night?
I do love the nicely naughty stories Nick and I whisper to each other.