He started off by shoving me down into the recliner, grabbing my legs to yank my ass to the edge, lifting my skirt to expose my nakedness and then burying his face in my pussy. I scrunched up my face, fisted my hands, grumbled and tensed up. That, obviously, was not the reaction he was expecting because he stopped, looked up and curiously asked “Does this gross you out or something?”
“No.” I said, still scrunched, fisted and tensed. “I’m just waiting for the bite. I hate the bit-”.. the rest was lost in a yelp as he snapped his teeth at me and lowered his head again. “You mean this?” he asked, clamping onto a chunk of my inner thigh.
“Aye! Yes! Ye..erm. No. No, actually that felt pretty good.” I squirmed as he repeated the chomping up and down the other thigh, hard but not sharp bites, just very, very, very pleasantly painful. When he re-centered his mouth over my pussy, I tensed up again. It’s the clit biting that I hate, that intense, sharp zing of pain that never seems to morph into pleasure like it’s supposed to.
He teased, threatened, and bared his teeth in between the licks and the gentle sucks, grinning each time I tensed and grunted in anticipation of the pain. My legs quivered with the effort of holding them open to endure something I dislike and I waited and waited, wanting to relax into the pleasure of the licking but knowing as soon as I did, he’d strike.
And then he didn’t. He didn’t strike. Something told me he wasn’t going to. He seemed… interested in wanting me to enjoy it.
I had confusion.
I had… disappointment.
I quite wanted to bop him upside the head and demand to know wtf he was doing down there.
Oh, it felt good. Don’t get me wrong. But, you know, a bubblebath feels good, too, and I don’t burst into orgasm when I sit in one of those, either.
I was right on the verge of counting ceiling tiles (I jest. Surely, you must know I jest. We don’t even have ceiling tiles.) when he came up for air.
Honestly now. It did feel good. Of course it did. Sometimes it’s just difficult to change direction when you think you know where you’re going.
But change I did. Or.. was.. when he raised himself up on his knees and started unbuckling his belt.
~swoon~
I know I keep repeating this but the quiet little clinks of the belt buckle coming undone… ooh la la la. My cunt, still resting on the very edge of the recliner, lifted itself of its own accord, straining toward his crotch.
Then it was his turn to ooh la la. Without missing a beat, he took the end of his belt and smacked it smartly against my wet pussy.
Suddenly, disappointment and ceiling tiles? Yeah. I don’t fucking think so.
I spread my legs wider and lifted my hips higher, inviting, silently begging for more. He obliged, cracking it over and over again, the sound as sharp as the sting. When he finally stopped and pulled his cock out, I was already straddling that orgasmic edge, not needing much more than a poke, a pump and a “Now!” to finish me off.
He poked, he plunged, and the planets misaligned, the stars scattered and a different pain, an unpleasantly distracting pain took the place of the orgasm that had been hovering just out of reach. This was one of those internal, wtf-are-you-doing-to-my-organs? kinds of pain.
Deep, crampy, heavy and fucking up my fucking good time.
I tried to get on top of it, as I sometimes can do, as he pounded away at me from the awkward angle of the recliner-seat. Sometimes I can harness that kind of discomfort, transform it by way of repeating the mantra of “You don’t have a choice, cunt. Shut the fuck up and deal.” and though I would have STFU’ed and dealt, when he started demanding and commanding orgasms that were rapidly becoming unreachable, I breathlessly pleaded for a new position.
He yanked me down to doggie and re-entered, upon which I discovered the previous pain of the recliner position had been lightweight in comparison to the deep-seated ache that every thrust from behind sent shooting through my innards. Briefly I wondered when my insides had rearranged themselves to sit inside my vagina before all capability of rational thought was pounded from my head as he entered his zone. Unable to form a coherent word between the squeals and cries, he rode me like a Pony Express rider, either oblivious to, or dismissive of, my state.
Punctuating the oblivious- and/or dismissive-ness with frequent ridiculously hard spanks to my ass, thighs and hips, I started contemplating ways to escape.
Eventually, when every “Now!” command was met with nothing more intelligent than “OWWW!”, he flipped me over to missionary, shoving my ankles to my ears and starting over. I don’t know that he was necessarily trying to assist me into a comfortable position so much as acrobatics tend to play a role in our sex life anyway; whatever his reason, the planets realigned and comfort- of a sort- graced me as he plunged back in.
Now the pain became pleasurable, less kidney-jabbing and more orgasm-nudging. NOW we were in business. Now, who the fuck needs to hear “Now!”? Commanded to come?? By God, I was spitting them out like watermelon seeds!
The final straw, when he goes in deep and then does this little buck-n-slide maneuver that seems to settle him in another 3 or 4 or 800 inches, a move that makes my eyes pop open and my breath catch and, apparently, my pussy quiver because HIS eyes roll back in his head and he howls at the moon before yanking out, yanking me up by my hair and slamming his warm, sticky, wet, convulsing cock down my throat to empty himself.
And then we just kind of lay there on the floor, panting and lost in our own little separate orgasmic euphoria, drool trickling unnoticed down my chin… Wait.
That’s not drool.
Nevermind.
So, bottom line is this. I need a little side of pain with my sex. Not the organ-rearranging kind, but the sharp, breath-hitching kind. Not the planning-my-escape kind but the make-me-cry kind. Not the–
Meh. You know what I mean. I’d wager a bet most of you require that same side order. ;-)
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Uncategorized | kaya | 
Friday July 30th, 2010 10:43pm | 
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