A beating worth waiting for.
To say this particular beating was a long time coming is an understatement, I very subtly hinted that I’d be amenable to said beating 3 probably closer to 4 years ago now and the wonderful A took the hint. However, I’ve actually wanted to submit to this particular sadist’s ministrations for about 7 years.
So it’s been a really fucking long time coming.
The setting was Play Club, I was dressed as the sluttiest of Santa’s and nervous as fuck. I’ve not been to this event since well before the pandemic and I wasn’t sure who I’d know or if the world might sabotage my plans because we all know life happens! As it was, there were several familiar faces there and some really sweet and social new faces who helped to make the night fun.
When A arrived with his gorgeous girls he spoke to me about when I wanted my beating. I was a polite, good girl and said whenever he was ready instead of my instinctual ‘now now, oooh, now!’ and so he said we’d do it later as it was likely to get quite heavy. Promises, promises.
Way to leave me on the hook there!
But knowing it definitely was going to happen put me at my ease and I enjoyed conversation until I was summoned to the upstairs play room. I moved like lightning and threw off my clothes with barely a thought. As I did A (did I mention he was dressed in a smart Santa suit?) laid out his implements of torture and with permission I eagerly stroked Lucile, the most beautifully brutal purple paddle. She would be the climax of the beating. I couldn’t wait.
The spanking bench wasn’t completely comfortable but I soon forgot about the awkward splay of my body when A commenced spanking. I’ve learnt not to let out any noises which can be construed as contentment as I’m being hit. Meanies see it as a challenge. However, A’s strong, repeated hand spanks felt really good. Deep, penetrating pain that brought my masochist sparking to life.
“I’m not the kind of Dom who gently soothes you into a beating with a rhythm.” He said, changing the heaviness of his slaps and slowing the pace. “I expect you to be present and feel every single hit, do you understand me?”
“Yes, Sir!” I responded instinctually.
“That’s the right answer.” A’s voice filled with honeyed smugness. I was grateful that the ‘Sir.’ Leapt from my lips. Who knew what would have happened if it hadn’t.
I love a good crop and A used his next. Slapping intense spots over and over and interchanging with swishes and swathes of cane-like impact with the length of it, I definitely got louder and noisier.
“That’s what I like to hear!” He exclaimed. I beamed happily before screaming again at yet another stinging impact.
One thing I love about a public scene is the interaction with the other people around. Their energy adds to what’s going on and sometimes you get to have enlightening conversations. I had a few, a discussion on why I don’t like plain, flat paddles and I yelped and groaned and whined as A used just such an implement on me.
I’m pretty certain he was using the cane on me when I was having a particularly absorbing conversation. Funnily enough, I can’t remember what about now but I was chit-chatting away with a lovely young woman who I’d literally just met who was sat in the throne by the side of my head.
“Erm, excuse me!” A shouted.
“What?” I replied, casually glancing over my shoulder.
“I’m beating you here!”
“I know!” I replied. Without thinking. It was the very opposite of the right thing to say as a hail of hard, punishing cane strokes followed.
I tuned back into the beating. Well, that’s not true. I never really came out of it. Even during my conversation I was aware of each impact and the way it hurt so beautifully, building the warmth and the ecstasy so it stretched through every fibre of my being. My brain was alive with the zing of impact. Ironically, that’s also what switched off its capability to word and subsequently to work at all.
Oh, what a climax. Even the flat side felt good, but I preferred the more varied sting and thud of the rough, even if my brain was completely befuddled and I couldn’t work out which was which until A showed me.
“Last 10.” He soon said, too soon, even as the cold shiver of apprehension seeped through my bones (counted strokes always hurt the most) I wasn’t ready for it to be over. I wanted more and more and more and…well, I am a pain slut, so you get the gist.
I am glad to say he didn’t make me count the strikes. I was incapable as each impact shook me, eliciting all kinds of noises and yelps and gurgles of fear and exhilaration. The penultimate stroke knocked the wind out of me and I collapsed completely forward, like a ragdoll.
“You okay?” He checked, hand on my shoulder.
I nodded, my cheek squeaking on the spanking bench as I did, my lips raised into a beatific smile.
And that is when I got the last impact. The last, body shaking, mind blowing impact that was a fantastic end…but left me wanting more.
Not right at that moment as the wipes were out and I needed cleaning up (blood got everywhere) I admired my amazing marks and gave A a long and well deserved hug as I thanked him for the wonderful beating.
“Well done, you took that really well.” He said, “We should do it again.”
“Yes!” I eagerly replied. My masochist fully in control of my reactions.
I ached, I ached oh, I ached.
It was well worth the wait.