There was a pride in my heart as I heard Sir recounting fondly how he hit me that one particular time and showed off photos of the marks that it made. I stood taller, smiled widely, felt satisfaction swirling with arousal.
I remember it too. The waiting, the wanting, the aching anticipation of what was to come. The sound of Sir’s voice as he instructed a willing student in the ways of his weapon of choice. My cries, his exclamations, the impact of hard wood on soft butt.
The eagerness in us both. One session wasn’t enough, neither was two although I remember the satisfying throb in my arse and my own surprise when I agreed to round three.
Well, I was a pain slut (still am) and he loved to dish it out. My masochist and Sir’s sadist played so gleefully together.
Of course it was bittersweet, we don’t play that way anymore and I miss it, but to know he remembered what was with such relish made that a little easier to bear.
It wasn’t just me who noticed it, my lover whispered in my ear later, as he beat me with equipment we borrowed from you, he’d seen it too.
“It made you wet didn’t it?” He asked, hand between my thighs, fingers on my clit.
“Yes,” I groaned.
“My sweet, sexy pain slut.” He purred, stroking me a little longer before returning to beating me. Knowing that I needed that release first, building the hurt until I screamed for it to cease.
Then he finger-fucked me. Stroking and thrusting, pushing me down sparking off the pain that kept my orgasms rolling on and on and on. There was peace beyond climax, an appreciation of just what a lucky girl I am. Experiences had, experiences still to come and the man who I love beside me all the way, giving me just what I need.