Intimate Birthday Beating #MasturbationMonday

 

CW: punching, kicking,ultraviolence

 

“So, you have a choice,” H said with a smile. “41 with a whip or 41 with my body.”

I looked up at them. I was about two thirds through my birthday beating so processing thoughts and finding words was already challenging.

“You know I can make them both hurt.” The sadistic smirk I know so well spread across their face.

Yes. I was aware of just how they could make both options hurt. Very aware.

In the end distance was the deciding factor. I was taking a lot of pain and I wasn’t sure I could manage with the space between us that a whipping dictates. I wanted them close to me.

“Your body.” I replied firmly. I think they’d have grinned no matter what I said but to see their face light up at my answer was delightful and terrifying all at once.

“Where do you want me?” I asked. I am a good bottom, I think of my top’s needs.

“Just stand there.”

They indicated the space in the middle of the dungeon, just behind where I was kneeling on the spanking bench. In front of my friends who were gathered watching my birthday beats and/or waiting to have their own go.

I stood, I faced them and I braced myself.

The first hit is what I think of as a body check.  H used the whole of their arm and bent elbow to barge into my chest.

This was followed with kicks to the thighs. H used their shin to impact my flesh. I always feel like their shooting for goal when they move like that. I also felt the hit deep to the bone as well as on the already sore skin of my left thigh.

More kicks, barges and punches followed.

The last time I was at theirs they hit me with a new (to me) punch. Much more intensely focused on one spot. A one inch punch, they call it. This was the punch that knocked me back a good foot. Their knuckle dug into the already bruised flesh just over my left breast bone. It flared with intense, excruciating pain.

It was at this point they leant in to kiss me, running their hands down my arms, grounding me in their love and giving me a chance to catch my breath.

“How many was that?” H asked.

Counting is not something I do, so little snowflake was the official counting fairy of my spanks. I expected her voice or one of the others watching to immediately give a number.

There was silence.

“I don’t know!” She finally exclaimed. “I was too busy watching…that!” The room echoed with laughter and a figure was given, 7 I think. I suspect the number of hits had been higher. The audience were just stunned into silence.  I’m fairly confident we’d made it to double figures. H didn’t argue, even if I suspect they knew it was higher too.

Though, their counting had been pretty shitty all night, not getting much above one! And I’d definitely been thumped more times than that. So I was happy to settle with 7. And more than a little proud that mine and H’s violent interaction was so very engaging.

H continued. More focused punches had me moving backwards all the time with the force.

“I’ll be through the wall in a minute.” I laughed.

“Okay.” They wrapped their arm around me and turned me to face the way I’d come.  And moments after letting me go they kicked at the back of my thighs which were already very sore. I cried out and shuffled forward.

I shot them a look then. Incredulous, more than challenging.

The next kick shuddered through my butt and the next was my thighs once more. My thighs were on fire with pain.

I don’t remember every hit or even the order. I was focused on H, on taking the hits, on drinking in their looks, their strokes, the hugs and the kisses.

It was like a dance. Steps back, steps forward. Connection, brutal and explosive, dictating my response, guiding where I’d move next. They’d greet me on that spot with more violent impact or soft reassurance.

And on one occasion, face slaps.

I wasn’t expecting them. Softer than the other impacts but still hard, their deeper impact lies in the psychological. Slaps to my face make me feel degraded and used. They make me drop my gaze and quite often they will make me cry.

I didn’t cry but I felt small, I felt submissive, I felt controlled. Where I was enduring, absorbing and reflecting the punches and kicks I was subjugated by the face smacks, willingly so.

And I was very aware of the people watching. That added to my humiliation. It was hot.

I have an exhibitionist streak, I love an audience when I’m being beaten. I love to show off what I can take. There is another part of me, the part that’s been intrigued by tales of captives in pillories for as long as I can remember, that also gets off on being humiliated in front of people.

They continued with the punches and hits then, it was a relief to feel the harsh, all-encompassing pain once more and when we stopped again, we stopped face to face, their arms around me. I looked up into their eyes, saw, pride, lust, sadistic delight and love. I revelled in that, I hope they could see how much I was enjoying myself. How I was revelling in the pain they gave me.

Now, I can’t remember if they asked for the number of hits given or if they’d been keeping count. All I remember is their question.

“Where do you want the last two?”

I looked into their eyes. I get lost there quite often. H has amazingly expressive blue eyes and I could stare into them forever. Now, I could claim that’s what was going on at that particular point.

But no, I just hurt so much and was drunk with endorphins, I couldn’t do anything else.

“I can’t make a decision.” I whined. H laughed and the room laughed, reminding me again of our audience. When H hit me, the people around me became nothing but background.

“Any suggestions?” They asked.

“I was gonna say pussy.” Little Snowflake chirped up. God, I love my friends and the way they think.

H grinned at me. I love how they always give me space to say no. It’s part of why I trust them so deeply.

I didn’t say no, so they bent forward in front of me, looking back up into my face they forced their hand up into my cunt. Held straight, the top of their hand impacted between my lips. I know they could feel how wet I was. I’m sure they could smell it too.

My cheeks flushed and they chopped up into my cunt again, making me groan.

I held onto them, they embraced me tightly, kissed me. Whispered words of endearment which I don’t remember now but I know they made me feel good.

There is something uniquely intimate in another person hurting you with nothing more than their bare hands. The way H can hit me with such practiced precision and care is special and I enjoy it whether we’re alone or in a room full of kinky friends.

Many happy returns to me. Violent, hard, punchy returns.

Please?