Sadist High, Masochist Contentment #Lustitude

Hugging me so tightly midst a perfectly innocent and fun picnic Palantilin whispered in my ear

“I’m really looking forward to beating the ever living shit out of you.”

My whole body tightened in joy at words I had half convinced myself I’d never hear again. The promise of future pain mixed with the longest and best hug from the person I consider the other half of my brain was enough to have me floating on air.

What I didn’t realise was that the future was a matter of days away. Palantilin had free time a few days later and said he’d come over. I didn’t believe it was going to happen until he sent me his location and I could track his tram journey over because the shit show of 2020 has gotten me so used to being disappointed.

We sat and chatted a while before he casually threw the words ‘We can go upstairs in a moment.’ Into the conversation. My stomach flipped. I wasn’t anything but excited.

We sat on my bed and I passed him the kit bag. He rooted around and we discussed safe words, the fact I’d not been beaten in so long and wasn’t sure what I’d be able to take. Basically did the admin before getting down to the practical activity.

I took off my dress and was naked (I had dressed with speed stripping in mind) and laid down on my front as we continued to chat. I had no worry whatsoever about my body, had no worry about the beating to come. I was calm, just lying face down, waiting for his impacts did so much for my mental wellbeing

He started softly. He started slowly. I should have kept quiet I think because as soon as I started mewling happily he increased the hardness of his hits. Pretty certain he started with his favourite rose crop and it wasn’t long before I remembered why I both love and hate this particular mean bastard.

David is focused. Incredibly focused. Oh my fucking Christ hit somewhere bloody else focused.

And he has his favourite spot. All meanies do. He found it, the rounded softness of my hip and he hit strike after strike after strike.

“Fuck, you’re so bloody focused!” I yelped and rolled. He continued to beat me, finding a new spot to concentrate on until I’d cry out for a stop.

We continued in the same vein for a while, trying different weapons from my arsenal. Xavier, my beautiful handmade Paduak paddle was used heavily, leaving Xs like Scottish flags or the sign off of a sadist’s love letter all over.

Then the cane, I made the damn thing, well, braided the handle in a kinkcraft session and God damn it I cursed my life choices every time the ungiving delrin hit my flesh.

I took to rolling right over, hiding my butt and thighs from the starving sadist above me. But he kept on hitting, so my poor boobs got mauled. It really fucking hurt but I took more strikes because I was completely captured by the focused intensity on Palantilin’s face. He was smiling, just subtly, the corners of his mouth upturned, but his eyes were storm dark with sadistic glee.

He was fully, joyfully, wickedly engaged in causing me pain.

And the pleasure of that, streaked through my veins and I glowed with masochistic satisfaction.

David paused to take photos.

And I lay back in a haze of happy.  Feeling the slow burning blaze of multiple impact sites and the warmth of the familiar masochistic joy all wrapped up and topped with a soppy ass grin.

When the beating continued, somehow I rolled totally over to the other side of the bed in my completely fruitless attempt to escape Palantilin’s onslaught. I wasn’t not enjoying it but as I called for another stop I panted out what buzzed up into my brain.

“I’ve forgotten how to ride out the panic.”

Because I couldn’t get past that hurdle and it was frustrating me. I wanted to, wanted him to know I wasn’t unhappy and I wanted more, so much more but I’d not let myself revel in pain for so long I wasn’t quite sure I could any more.

Like when you’re just about to come but   you   just   can’t   quite   reach.

David responded to the plea I hadn’t voiced.

He reads me so well. Probably that other half of my brain thing.

Sitting down beside me, his legs stretched out, he patted his lap.

“I want you to put your head here.”

So I did. Lying against his left leg, my cheek pressed to his pelvis. He stroked my hair, I passed over the implements of my undoing, resettled and felt better.

The beatings were no less harsh, in fact, I think he hit me harder every time I gasped or moaned into his lap. I could feel his cock beneath my cheek, his arousal so obvious and growing with every groan and laugh and scream.

I clung to him. My hand around his hip, pressing my body harder into him. Of course he didn’t let up, he continued to hit and strike and focus on one particular Goddamn spot until I wriggled and writhed and wrapped my leg over his.

He stopped again, stroked my hair, let me hold his hand. I reached out for his hand a lot. The comfort of his fingers stroking over mine just gave me the reassurance I needed.

“Turn your face down.” Palantilin directed and I felt everything clench as I realised what he wanted. I placed my face down into his lap, my mouth against his erection.

Now every thrash of his arm, the contact of the weapon of choice (mostly cane or crop, occasionally paddle) on my already sore and welted flesh would result in a dramatic reaction from me. I’d scream and moan and gasp and whimper into him, aware all the time of my effect on his bobbing cock. I’d grip at his hip, roll my hip over his leg, gripping on tighter and tighter and feeling the arousal building higher and higher.

I rolled my head, gasping for air but a second later I remembered I’d been commanded to put my face down. So I placed my face back. I was soon rewarded by more hair strokes and a moments reprieve.

Which was mean in itself because I’d be panting and gasping and working to get my breathing under control. The longer he left me, the more I’d unwind, despite myself. Because I knew he’d strike as soon as he felt me completely relax.

He’s a bastard like that.

“Why do I like you again?” I giggled hysterically for the second time. He didn’t answer me. We both know why I like him. He’s mean and he’s tender and I need both to really soar.

Talking of really sore, I got to a point where my poor hip was so painful an impact made me jump and scrabble ‘til I rolled totally over his leg, straddled his knee and laughed.  I went to move back.

“No, stay there.” He wanted to hit the other side I think but also I was straddled across him. So he could feel all my naked self against his jeaned leg. As He hit me over and over I buried my face into his stomach, my breasts now pressed into his lap, my hands clinging to both hips.

I whimpered, I crooned. I keened, I groaned. I panted, I snuffled.

It was the first point I was aware of how naked I was compared to Palantilin who was fully dressed. The imbalance was delightful, furthering deepening my submissiveness.

He continued, hitting with precise, vicious intensity until my whimpers turned to sobs and my eyes filled with tears and that point, the point I couldn’t let myself pass before, disappeared in a glaze of stubborn tears and sobbing cries.

A moment’s pause, a stroke, a moment to gasp and squeeze him tight and he was thrashing me again.

His favourite spot. I could feel the pain but it felt far away, the biting impact and sting was there but the ecstasy building below that drowned it out as I rode the building pleasure, the pain now like a well-placed strum of my clit.

Paingasm.

I gripped him so tightly, I screamed into his shirt and marvelled at how much my body hurt and throbbed and how fucking good it felt.

I moved and laid back beside him on my front. He took a photo, showed me.

“I feel like this could do with more, don’t you?” Palantilin said, cheekily smiling.

“Oh yeah, like what?” I replied, my smart mouth takes over when I’m floating on happy pain vibes.

“More red, maybe a bit of purple?”

And if I ever doubted my masochism my response blew that clear away.

“Maybe you should use the cane, it leaves pretty marks.”

It was as he sat up and grabbed the cane that what I’d said sunk in.

“Why do I give you such silly suggestions?” I cried after a few stinging strokes. As he hit the sweet spot between buttocks and thigh I grunted. It was such a biting pain but one I have dreamt about time and time again throughout the pandemic. I revelled in a dream come true until the pain bit through.

And I bit into my pillow. Getting growly and angered and offended by every stroke. I don’t know why it happens but sometimes my response just heads into the ‘how DARE you?’ area of emotion.

When he showed me the before and after shot, I felt vilified in my decision. There was lovely purples amongst the deepened reds.

I was floaty at this point.

“You’d do about anything I’d ask you now, right?”

“Mmm hmm.” I didn’t even have the will to word. But it was a significant moment. I happily and easily confessed to him I was at my most vulnerable. I trusted him with that.

“How about ten last strikes. “ Palantilin said a few minutes later. “Will you count with me?”

“Sure.” I agreed. “I don’t count,” I continued, “but for you I will …ooooooowwwww.” His strike took me by surprise. “One.”

“What was that?” He asked.

“One!” I replied and he hit again “two!” I screamed.

“No, you said it was one.” He argued.

“God, you can’t count!” I cursed. “That was the one one but that was two and—“

“That’s a free one.” He hit viciously.

“What, that was the three one?” I replied.

He laughed deeply. “Okay, that was clever, I’ll give you that one.”

The strikes got harder. It’s always that way with him. The counted strikes are the worst. I gritted out each further number to nine.

He stroked my leg, murmured soothingly as I waited for stroke ten. It would be the hardest of the lot and when it struck I was completely overwhelmed with ouch but I pushed out the word, arching my back and funnelling the explosive sting through me, out of me.

“You did well.” He said, stroking my back as I collapsed face first into the pillows.

He was buzzing on sadist high as I floated on masochist contentment. I could have slept. Palantilin wanted to do things. But he respected my need for rest and recovery.

It wasn’t the end of our fun. I got dressed (in a longer, more covering dress) and went downstairs to chat to Kit and Kev. I ouched ad oohed and he smirked. My family gave me 0 sympathy. It was lovely. Then I got a tram with Palantilin into town.

His excuse was that it was to get me out of the house for a while.

What it actually was had nothing to do with that. It was an opportunity to spend more time together, which was sweet, but mostly it was a chance to make me squirm in public.

Poking bruises, watching my face at the bumps and the vibrations of tram along the tracks and you know, insufferable sadist stuff.  As well as hand holding, smiling and softly appreciating our time together.

And a poke off.

He dug his elbow deep into the tenderest bruise on my hip and my brat responded by pressing harder against it. He dug deeper, grinning at me as I pushed back. Of course he won because he wasn’t in immense pain. But it was fun.

An afternoon of people watching, weird mind ramblings and time spent with a person we both love was the perfect icing on the cake.

Our hug goodbye was tight but hopeful. We will have more fun in the summer and I can’t wait.

 

 

 

As I call the bruises on my body artwork, I thought this Palantilin diary kinda worked for the Lustitude prompt. 

 

Lustitude The Meme

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