Before

It has been more than a minute since I have submitted, and it shows.  

I have been doing some work on myself for the past few months, reflecting and learning and perhaps even growing a little.  I’ve been sitting with discomfort, mining its origins, and reconciling it with my sense of self and future.  It’s exhausting.  My brain is tired, and my body is too.  Work has been more cognitively and emotionally demanding than usual, and I am often lost in a cacophony of competing priorities.  My mind is noisy and chaotic (moreso than usual), and I am losing sight of the point in many areas of my world.

I have been relying on normal coping strategies for months, due to a storm of circumstances.  They work, sometimes even well- but not as well as submission, and not even close to as well as submitting to someone who can hold me.

He will be here in a few hours.  I haven’t seen him in ages, and haven’t even really chatted with him much beyond a few mutual proof of life messages each week- likely a sign that we both need this, perhaps more than usual.

I’m nervous, as I always am where he is concerned.  Less of him, and more for him- I want him to get out of this what he needs, by being what he needs.  He is a study in restraint, and I hope that he is able to loosen his grip enough to free us both.

During

Pleasantries eluded us.  Perhaps due to classic nerves, the weight of intent, rusty rapport- or maybe they just seemed inefficient.  The first kiss was grounded electricity- an instant reminder of our chemistry, and his gravity.  The kiss tethered me to him, promising safety like the glow from a lighthouse in a pending storm.  

When he spat in my face seconds later, the storm began.

Apparently freed from the burden of small talk, I tucked my arms behind my back to signal my submission.  He kissed my smirk, his hands wandering over my body as if drawing himself a map.  He spread my legs, reaching between them to begin my unravelling.  I followed the thread of my orgasm through his fingers, his scent, his steady (and vaguely intimidating) aura, all the way to the edge.

I stumbled through asking permission- I blame the frantic need between my legs exacerbating a lack of practice.  It didn’t matter anyway, because his answer was no.

I expected the no, and took a deep breath. I smiled because his fingers felt so fucking good. I squirmed on my feet as he brought me back to the slippery edge, his lips dancing across mine and down my neck.  I could feel my orgasm in my core, threatening to explode through my vibrating body.  I asked again.  He said no.

I could feel myself losing control, falling into that desperate place of undisciplined, feral need.  It was far too early for such a thing- neither one of us was looking for easy.  It took me a minute to remember how to stifle that need; I breathed into my feet, clearing my mind and pushing my orgasm further away.  We battled like this for a while, his relentless fingers pushing me closer and closer to the edge while I tried to hold on.  

I wasn’t keen on giving him the satisfaction of asking a third time, but as it turns out I was less keen on giving him the satisfaction of making me cum without permission.  I asked again, perhaps more than once, each request betraying the desperation that I was failing to control.  

His “yes” was blessed relief and a cursed threat in one simple syllable.  My knees buckled as I came, my hands frantically finding purchase on his arms.  He held me up, his fingers refusing to relent against my sensitive clit until my moans became whimpers, and then a silent smirk.

He spit on me again, bringing his cum-soaked fingers to my mouth.  He reached into my throat as far as he could, allowing me to taste myself and daring me to gag.  My eyes met his as his fingers pressed down my throat- a stubborn standoff.  He asked me if I tasted good, knowing I couldn’t answer.  I choked out a “yes” as he removed his fingers.

He rewarded me with a slap across my spit-soaked face.

It was the hardest he’s ever hit me across the face- enough that I felt his hand long after it left my skin.  I think I might have smiled- or at least I did on the inside.  He wasn’t going to be gentle with me, thank goodness.

My next few moments were a blur of spitting, slapping, and cumming.  He pressed my back against the wall, freeing my tits from lace so that his teeth could mark them.  The sting of his open hand on the soft skin of each one was peace and pain.  He warmed the skin above my nipple with his mouth, possessively sucking until he left his mark.  Then he carefully cupped me, gently caressing his target before his palm struck. 

Sometimes I got one slap, sometimes each breast got three or five in quick succession, with the bite of a nipple.  Sometimes I screamed, sometimes I gasped.  Sometimes I smiled.

My soft skin screamed in protest, my mind begging me to remove my arms from the wall and block his access.  I warred with myself, fighting my instincts to protect instead of surrender.  I could feel chemicals start to course through my body, rushing to alleviate the pain he continued to inflict.  I flinched a few times, base instincts briefly winning the battle for self-preservation, but each time I found a slice of resolve that allowed me to lean into the gift of his intensity.  

His hands occasionally granted reprieve from the pain, only to augment my frenzy by demanding another orgasm.  He held me against the wall by the throat as his fingers rubbed my clit while each shudder of my body restricted the air in my lungs.  My body and mind were so overstimulated that I began to lose myself in him; all I could focus on were his hands, his breath, his spit.  Surrendering to him, absorbing him.

He peppered his assault with tender kisses, a reminder of the tether in the storm.  Each kiss was reassurance, and a chance to anchor myself to him amid the frenzy.  His lips built and dissolved tension in equal measure, making my fraying mind swim in clouds.

His open palm eventually became a closed fist, starting in my ribs. The immediate grounding was better than any memory of it, no matter how carefully studied and held.  The heated sting in my abused tits dulled, the need between my legs was quiet.  When his fist meets my body, it is all that exists.  

Ribs, chest, thighs.  Over and over.  I could feel his concentrated restraint behind the coiled power transferring through him into me.  My body quieted with each blow; the agitation from his assault on my tits dissolved through his fists.  The fear and flinching that met each slap was replaced by an open welcome for each thud.  

He flipped me over, pressing my face against the wall. The spit slid my cheek on the cool surface of the wall as he held me still.  I pressed my hands against the wall to anchor myself as his hand met my ass.  

He warmed the skin with quick, concentrated blows.  My tits stung against the wall, but the stinging in my ass soon overpowered.   He pulled away briefly; I thought it was to give me a chance to regroup, until I heard his belt unbuckle.

His belt on my ass was ruthless.  I screamed, stomped, squirmed.  I breathed, and did my best to relax into each blow- but each time I found solid ground he excavated it with precision.  I had nowhere to go, and with his hand pressing me into the wall I had no option but to absorb everything he was putting into me.  The word yellow was at the tip of my tongue, but I wasn’t ready for it.  I wanted oblivion- I needed it.

Then I started to float.

The pain was acute, but I found it harder to care.  He flipped me back around, holding me to the wall by the throat.  He spit on my face before and after he slapped it.  I smirked.  He went back to my tits, slapping them with renewed vigor.  At one point he mentioned that his hand was sore, in facetious solidarity.

I wanted to call him a pussy.  I wanted to call him a delicate flower.  

I didn’t, so apparently I maintained at least a sliver of self-preservation.

Instead I kept at it, surrendering my breasts to his demanding hands.  They hurt worse than ever, but my head was spinning with too much emotion to retreat.  

Tears threatened, catching me by surprise.  I could feel them behind my eyes begging to fall as each slap on my tits gave them a reason.  I stifled them, afraid that he would back off.  I wasn’t ready to be done- I needed more, though I had no idea what.

We relocated to the shower.  My body felt both weak and strong as I got to my knees.  I couldn’t help but smile as I was greeted with his cock- it is fucking gorgeous.  It slid into my mouth with ease, finding purchase in my throat instantly.  He laced his fingers through my hair, guiding my head and taking what he wanted.  

He forced himself down my throat, holding my head against his hips.  I struggled reflexively, and then he plugged my nose.  I stilled as my brain tried to catch up.  I tapped out quickly, annoyed with myself.  

“Again,” I requested.  I forgot to say please.  Sue me.

He slid back into my throat, and this time I was ready for the nose pinch.  I relaxed my shoulders and throat, letting my mind unfocus.  My body still struggled to surrender, and I couldn’t maintain the relaxed posture.  I tapped out again.

When he was back in my throat again, I was already relaxing.  I cleared my mind, placed my hands behind my back, and focused on the steady feeling of his hands on my head and neck to ground myself.  My body started to fight, but my mind fought back.  He oscillated between challenge (you’re better than this) and praise (good girl, that’s it); his voice makes me focus (and soaked) in any instance, but especially when he needs more from me.

I kept my throat open for longer and longer each time; every now and then earning an orgasm for my effort.  As he reached down between my thighs and drove his fingers inside me, my wetness could be heard over my moans.  I was equally desperate to cum as I was to choke on his cock, which happens to be my desired state.

He held my throat and head as he fucked my face; I focused on relaxing and removing all resistance- becoming nothing but a sleeve.  He reached his fingers down my throat, holding them there as I looked up at him.  His eyes consumed me as he demanded more, finally pressing hard enough that I puked.

A shot of cold water rinsed me off before a shot of warm piss coated my face.  I opened my mouth, taking the head of his cock in as he soaked me.  He fucked my throat, using me exactly as he needed to.  When the first string of cum added to the medley of fluids already on my face, I smiled.  

His orgasm was furious.   I gently sucked the head of his cock as he came down, my signature self-satisfied smirk on my lips.  I had ended up exactly where I wanted (and needed) to be. His cum was hot on my face, and totally coated me- the final touches of a masterpiece of mess. 

After

Immediately after as we came back to each other in bed, I felt light.  Body and mind synchronized (for once), a peaceful hum of chemicals coursing through my abused flesh.  The sense of airy freedom is intoxicating, and though it is short lived, it feels akin to wiping a chalkboard clean.  I slept more deeply than I have in weeks.

A few things are kicking around my mind as I process the scene.  The tears were surprising- not because I didn’t think he could get me there, but because I didn’t think it would be that fast, and I didn’t think pain would be the trigger.  I have felt the tears for a while, but haven’t found their release- I haven’t been coping well, and tend to translate complex emotion into physical stress.  When the bucket gets full, though, it has to be emptied- but for me, that doesn’t happen without a catalyst.  

Upon reflection, the tears didn’t come from pain alone- they came from relief, and perhaps gratitude.  I was finally getting what I needed, in the way that I needed it- what I had been craving for months.  I was grateful for his time, and his skill- and his vulnerability.  As my body screamed, my mind silenced- and the tears were a signal of that relief.

I didn’t let them fall, and I am annoyed at that.  I would have eventually lost that battle, but as it happened I stifled that particular release.  I was afraid that the change in me would elicit a change in him, and that he would back off.  While I am reasonably sure that wouldn’t be the case (safe words exist for a reason), I wasn’t willing to risk it.  I didn’t want care or consideration, and I didn’t want to pull him out of the depth that he was accessing- I wanted, and needed him to keep going- for both of our sakes.  I needed his fists, his bruises, his controlled fury- more and more, without hesitation, and I think he needed to stay where he was. 

I felt rusty with his cock in my throat, which was also annoying.  It has been a long time since I worked for it, and my brain/body connection was frayed.  I had a hard time fighting the instinct to breathe, and remembering how to do so.  His occasional coaching or praise helped, as did my consuming desire to please and impress him.  When I was finally able to get closer to surrender, systematically releasing tension and control from my muscles and letting him guide my body, I felt incredible.  It felt familiar, serene, and accomplished.  

I remember giggling a handful of times- likely teasing insanity, but I think much like the tears I was just overcome with relief at the release.  My clit screamed every time he tore an orgasm from me, and my body was overstimulated to the nth degree.  I could barely open my eyes from the spit on my face, and my tits stung with the might of a thousand bees.  I was exactly where I wanted to be.  

I smirked when his piss hit my face.  I had wondered if he would get there, and was pleased, relieved, and perhaps a little bit smug that he did.  I was a total mess, and it seemed fitting that he would take advantage of my state by augmenting it.  I opened my mouth reflexively, taking him in and swallowing or spitting him out as he washed over me.  I was frenzied, desperate for more- more stimulation, more of him, more escape.   Being pissed on has a raw intimacy that can’t be fully appreciated until it is experienced.  It is depraved, vulnerable, connecting, and decadent.  It punctuates submission beautifully.

When I look in the mirror, I see power- both his and mine.  When I press on my sternum, as I do when I need to take a breath, I feel sharpness where his fist was.  My body feels centered, my brain feels more capable, and my mind feels ease for the first time in ages.