Archive for marking

A Special Invitation

Posted in Nonfiction with tags , , , , , , on August 20, 2009 by scarlettbottom

Remember this post? That fellow is my costar in this one, too.

Last night was my second spanking from him. He’s the DM at a weekly playspace. Last week I asked him to try a few different toys so I could experience a range of different sensations. They all ran together quite a lot, and when he was finished, he rested his hand on my back, as I slid right off the end of the bench into a puddle on the floor. He looked down at me on the floor, grinning, and assisted me to my feet. Half carrying me over to the edge of the playspace to recover, he handed me over to a friend who set me on a bar stool.

Sometimes one can be so deep in subspace that normal activities seem unnatural. Like sitting on a chair.
“Can I sit on the floor?”
“Absolutely.”
I slid down to the floor, petticoats spread out everywhere, completely unconscious of the staring crowd. S came back and I leaned my head on his knee, his fingers wrapped in my hair.

I wasn’t able to indulge in this very long because this girl lines up several dates in a night; Luke beckoned me over for a suspension. He suspended me from my hips, upside down, hands and heels together. It was my first suspension and I had a great time. But the best part was that I could feel that S was watching.

Last night S noticed me as soon as I came into the club.
“Hello, gorgeous.”
Since he’s the DM I have to wait an awfully long time for his attention; he has work to do. About 1:30, I went hunting for him.
“I’m going to have to insist in a moment.”
“Oh no, we’re going upstairs right… in a minute.”
He held me around my waist and chatted with a few people (I love being a trophy on someone’s arm- and the higher the status of the man, the more satisfying the experience) and then took my hand and lead me upstairs. Standing in the playpit, he held me by my hair and instructed me to pick out three favorite toys and lay them on the spanking bench. I chose two different paddles and a crop, and played “poor me” to get a flogger and and bare hand, as well. Five toys? Sure, indulge the kitten.

I stepped out of my skirt. In just a wifebeater tank top, towering heels, and bare-assed, I leaned against the bench, basking in the attention from the growing crowd and letting suspense build. But I forgot all about my audience when S came back. He pushed down hard on my back, down to the bench, gripping my hair, and using first a flogger and then hands to stroke and slap my ass and pussy. He leaned over me, talking dirty in the best bdsm tradition- “You’re a very dirty girl, aren’t you? You like it when I hold you down like that? I bet you’d like to be even more restrained- how’s that? You’re a bit of a slut, aren’t you?” He put his finger in my mouth and I melted. How is it that he knows exactly what I want him to do?

He pulled me to a sitting position, straddling the bench.
“Do you drink vodka?”
“Sure.”
“Are you driving?”
“No.”
He took a shot into his mouth, and then fed it to me, and then another. Let me tell you, I’m not normally a fan of shots, but that was the smoothest vodka I’ve ever had. It probably helped that he was holding me up by my hair and leaning into me like that.

He pulled me up and walked me over the the cross. Kicking my feet apart, he stood with one knee between mine and leaned in, pressing my lower back into the crux of the cross. He nibbled my ears and neck (nibbling for this guy isn’t what you would normally think of as nibbling) finally kissing my mouth before putting his hand over it. I’m guessing that breath play isn’t normally allowed at this PG-13 club, but when you’re the boss you do what you want. I like rule-breakers anyhow.

Someone came over to him and said it was 2:20 and time to clean up. He swore mentally and pulled out a horrible wooden paddle and gave me three of the hardest slaps I’ve ever had. Ouch! That was like a hairbrush. I stood and turned around, sitting down on the bench (so we ended up using all of the furniture in the space) and he wrapped an arm around my waist and invited me to play at his personal dungeon at his home before sweeping me up in his arms. I snuggled my face into his chest and he held me for a little bit, before setting me back on my feet smoothly.

“Scarlett, how old are you?
“22. How old are you?”
Sigh. “36.”
“I’ve never played with anyone younger than 30. And I choose my tops carefully.”

He went to tidy up the toy box and get some people to put the furniture away. As I unlaced his corset, he made an apology to the club manager for taking so long: “Sorry about that, I was playing with Scarlett. Look at that cute ass! How could I resist?” I, for my part, hammed it up and he laid a hand on my lower back and bit my right ass cheek so hard I screamed. That bite mark is going to last for days.

Marking

Posted in Nonfiction with tags , on July 2, 2009 by scarlettbottom

I tend to mark my lovers. I can’t help it. I try to be considerate and use the pads of my fingers, but in the middle of sex, I don’t have the attention span to moderate natural impulses like scratching and biting.

I do keep track of the scars I leave. Rather, my lovers insist on telling me about them. So far I’ve left permanent or semi-permanent marks on all of my serious lovers (and some not so serious). To my great embarrassment, my first girlfriend in high school showed all of my friends the bloody cat scratches the next day. A more recent girlfriend still insists on showing the four very clear fingernail marks from one very stormy night several years ago to anyone who will look. And *everyone* will look, at the marks, and then at me.

But I think I want to be marked, the way I do others. I’m not huge on personal property in general, and I’m learning to be even more open about ownership in relationships, but there’s something animalistic about leaving a mark on your lover, shared or otherwise. And the mark is a souvenir- I’ll never forget those marks on her shoulder, and neither will she.

The collar I wear is my mark. it has its upsides; it doesn’t fade over time, it doesn’t heal, it doesn’t hurt (whether that’s positive or negative depends on your view of pain), and it’s very obvious. But it has its downsides, too. It’s removable, and it can be taken away from me at any time.

Best to stay on his good side.