I crave pain. I need it. I want it. It seems the more I get the more I want. So I was very much looking forward to Play Club. My first ever. The venue was awesome, the day was hot and I needed pain. I knew I was going to get it and I was going to get something a bit different. I got more than I anticipated and still was craving more at the end.
Yep, pain slut, that’s me. I think we’ve established that by now.
AI owed me a beating. This is a position I love to be in. So once he was adequately caffeinated we found a room. I let him rifle through our bag of tricks to pick out various evil implements to use in conjunction with his own kit. I told him one of my favourites and also the one I hate. The evil bloody rubber tantus paddle.
I started on my front on a lovely, comfy bed. I did quip I’d try not to nod off, but AI wasn’t going to let me stay comfortable for long. We may know each other a lot better than when we first played, but every time we do there is something new. This time, the thing that really stood out for me was how quiet it was in that room. Door shut, windows open. I could hear low murmurs of sound but dampened and not immediate.
This meant that every noise I made was crystal clear to my ears, and his. It also meant that I could hear him too. Deep breathing, wry chuckles when I squeaked in response to prods or particularly heavy impacts on sore spots.
There is something to be said for new things (I wrote about the joy of the new just recently) but there is also something about the established. There is the freedom to let go, the confidence to just be, no need to hold back or think. I find myself in that submissive headspace almost immediately his hand first slaps my flesh.
His familiar rhythm pushes me through each strike. His reassuring touch coming whenever I need it, calming the boiling panic inside that maybe I can’t take it, maybe this impact is too much. There were two spots on the back of my thighs that screamed with every impact. As they got heavier and heavier, and the pain got sharper and more intense I crossed and uncrossed my hands beneath my chin. I buried my face into the bed, nipped at the flesh on my hand with my teeth and arched my back.
I wiggled my feet, something I do instinctually when a beating hits the sweet spot of pain I can only just contain and let out virtually continuous noises. From squeaks and yelps to moans and whimpers. There is a certain kind of deep, penetrating thump that shakes me through to the core. These impacts especially inspire an instant, visceral response. I’m not sure of the precise implement, but there was one that used with quick rhythm and bruising intensity just turned me into a wet, sticky mess. I remember my cheeks flushing as hot as the impact zones as I blushed, thinking about how pornographic my moans were sounding. And that, turned me on all the more. And I’m blushing now, having written that. I’m a complex beast.
AI brought me close to the limits of what I think I can take, and that again is the joy of the established. I trust him to push me further, and each time we play, he does. He is so very good to me.
After a moment to catch my breath I rolled, tentatively and with ouchy exclamations onto my back. Butt and thigh beating was only part 1 of the fun. I was due a boob beating. Yay!
Of course, I’m vulnerable whenever I take a beating. I was very much more aware of that vulnerability as I lay on my back, hands clasped tightly over my stomach. Waiting for him to decide what implement to use first. I could see everything. This powerful, fully clothed man looming over naked, part beaten and taut with anticipation me. The vulnerability burned with intense desire, the power exchange brutally obvious before a blow was landed.
As he started, cane to boobs, I watched him, or more accurately, his face. The look of intense, controlling concentration made my stomach flip. Even more so when, between strikes, he looked up to check on me and our gazes met.
The beating got harder, light wooden paddle next. I oohed and whimpered and squeaked, pain blazing much quicker through my breasts than it does on my butt. Then he brought out the evil rubber paddle I particularly hate. My noises were louder, squeaks and squeals, moans and hisses. My legs were flailing, left right and centre as I concentrated on not moving my arms. I moved my hands. I’d clasp my fingers together more tightly to hug myself at the onslaught. But I knew I had to keep them out of the way. I wasn’t physically restrained, so I did it mentally.
I remember, as one hit caught the end of my nipple, and I screamed something unintelligible and animalistic, he laughed. This short, deep, heh. I closed my eyes in reaction but I just know that sound was accompanied by a smirk.
But a kind one. He followed the evil, hated paddle with my favourite studded wooden one. I love the contrast of stinging studs and thuddy paddle. I love it, but fuck it hurts, digs into the soft, giving flesh of my breasts.
Fighting the instinct to close my eyes tightly. I would look up. The same, stern look of concentration greeting me. Seeing me being observed so closely, the concentrated sadism as he hit with precise, intense strikes just took my breath away. Literally, I had to remember to breathe.
I kept (or at least I tried to) my torso as still as I could. The rest of me danced. Either my head thrashed side to side or my legs did all kinds of jigs. Crossing my ankles, circling them, kicking up off the bed, squeezing my thighs (damp, most definitely damp and likely not from the heat of the weather) anything to pass the impact on my breasts out through the rest of me.
And the same pressure would escape my lips. Pants, gasps, moans, yelps, squeaks and squeals. And even with all this, going on, he kept the same gaze, focused on my breasts and his implement in hand.
I think my heart stopped when he pulled out the club. A literal, chunk of terrifying wood, dips and points and I’ve met this Venator before, I know how excellently evil it is. I felt fear. Deep, gut wrenching fear. But in that same moment I was as excited and eager as I could be. And then it struck. So hard, so crushing. The strikes taking my breath away. I couldn’t think I could only feel and absorb and roll in the pain absorbing it, transforming it to pleasure, praying for it to never stop yet wanting it to end in a paradox of ecstatic torture.
And when I couldn’t take much more AI picked up his other Venator, a paddle of consequence. Cleaver like, the edges dug into my reddened, already bruised flesh and I know I writhed and screamed in anguish. I was grateful as he brought me down, with lighter and more general impacts. Giving me time to remember how to breathe. To still my legs, to loosen my wringing hands.
I don’t get spacey easily, I was most certainly spacey then. He fed me Haribos, sat with me as I recovered. I kept shutting my eyes and drifting. He made sure I was okay, every time I went quiet for a while. He took care of me. As I floated happily in a space where everything hurt but it was joy, pure joy.
And in those acts of aftercare, AI showed me kindness. But as we spoke, and I called him mean (as I do. I love to taunt meanies for their wonderfully wicked ways) he asked if I’d enjoyed it. I replied that I had, very much and so it was decided he was actually kind for the beating.
Every strike, an expression of care.
Every blow, laid with compassion.
The cruel kindness of a sadist.