This one is about what I like to do.
What I like to do is to show up in casual wear, nothing that attracts too much attention. Been there, done that.
I like to wear a nice bra, and some sort of sheer and comfortable top. Any old pants will do, and nice boots. Got to have nice boots.
I like to wear my well loved, leather strap on harness underneath my pants, even if I don't plan on using it for it's intended purpose. Having that leather against you, well, there is no way to describe that. But it is an essential of life.
I like to cruise around the entire complex, with that leather rubbing between my legs, looking for people doing interesting things. Something out of the ordinary. If something catches my eye, I'll stop and watch a while. Sometimes I get invited to touch, sometimes they are just there for themselves. But making that eye contact and seeing if you get an invite is oh so much fun. Think of cruising a bar for a flirt, but your dirty, naked fantasy is already actually happening.
That is, if your fantasy is actually naked and dirty, and involves strangers on a concrete floor or nasty public couch. Maybe that's just me?
Anyways, I have to get a good look at all the action before I settle into anything. Have to flit around like a butterfly and stick my nose into everything.
When I'm done exploring, I'll meet my sadist. He is a sweet, good fellow.
Getting restrained in public is not my thing. Too many random variables. So, my sadist will instruct me to remove my shirt and pull my pants down, of course leaving on the boots. He appreciates good boots. He will instruct me to rest myself against the black, wooden cross. Lower. Ass out a bit more. That's right.
He will warm me up nicely with gentle strokes, to begin with. He will run the flogger up and down my back, tickling me, giving me shivers, letting me feel the weight of the straps. He might swing the flogger around, to get a good feel of it. That is, if he is using mine. Some nights, I'll let him use some of his, but they are more painful than mine. One of rubber straps with serrated edges. Or sometimes, he will torture each breast in turn with two tiny floggers with fine rubber threads. But my favorite is my own, simple, heavy leather.
The gentle brushes of leather against my hips turn into hits- a slow morphing. Gentle whacks around the ass and thighs get harder. He moves down the legs. Back up. Time for a real hit, one on the ass, that wakes me up. All my attention is focused on the present moment. Where will the next hit be?
My only job at this moment is to give up control and trust in my sadist. Because that is the game.
I am a control freak. It is impossible for me to give up my control. My sadist, literally, has to beat it out of me...
The next hits are on my shoulders- my favorite place. Closer to my brain. The pain seems faster. Undiluted. He moves from shoulder to shoulder. I like the sharpness. Each sting brings me to this present moment, to my own body, aware of every square inch of me. Sharp stings turn into burn, as the skin gets tired.
The pain of repeatedly hitting the same place, that burn, seems like it is getting to be too much, but I can't say anything. That would ruin the game. But I don't have to, my sadist sees what I am feeling, and moves on to a new spot. He knows.
The burn travels up and down my body, and I start to yelp. I cry out. I whimper. It's a language, and he can read it better than I can, to be honest. When the yelp gives way to a whimper of a certain timbre, along with a defeated slump of the shoulders, or some other signal I am not aware of, the sadist knows that he is taking my just beyond where I am comfortable. The pain is overwhelming. I am burning, I can feel heat rising off my back. I don't want another hit, but a few more come. I don't want any more, I feel like the skin might break... and he stops. I let some tears go.
He holds my head and says that I did well.
What I like to do is to show up in casual wear, nothing that attracts too much attention. Been there, done that.
I like to wear a nice bra, and some sort of sheer and comfortable top. Any old pants will do, and nice boots. Got to have nice boots.
I like to wear my well loved, leather strap on harness underneath my pants, even if I don't plan on using it for it's intended purpose. Having that leather against you, well, there is no way to describe that. But it is an essential of life.
I like to cruise around the entire complex, with that leather rubbing between my legs, looking for people doing interesting things. Something out of the ordinary. If something catches my eye, I'll stop and watch a while. Sometimes I get invited to touch, sometimes they are just there for themselves. But making that eye contact and seeing if you get an invite is oh so much fun. Think of cruising a bar for a flirt, but your dirty, naked fantasy is already actually happening.
That is, if your fantasy is actually naked and dirty, and involves strangers on a concrete floor or nasty public couch. Maybe that's just me?
Anyways, I have to get a good look at all the action before I settle into anything. Have to flit around like a butterfly and stick my nose into everything.
When I'm done exploring, I'll meet my sadist. He is a sweet, good fellow.
Getting restrained in public is not my thing. Too many random variables. So, my sadist will instruct me to remove my shirt and pull my pants down, of course leaving on the boots. He appreciates good boots. He will instruct me to rest myself against the black, wooden cross. Lower. Ass out a bit more. That's right.
He will warm me up nicely with gentle strokes, to begin with. He will run the flogger up and down my back, tickling me, giving me shivers, letting me feel the weight of the straps. He might swing the flogger around, to get a good feel of it. That is, if he is using mine. Some nights, I'll let him use some of his, but they are more painful than mine. One of rubber straps with serrated edges. Or sometimes, he will torture each breast in turn with two tiny floggers with fine rubber threads. But my favorite is my own, simple, heavy leather.
The gentle brushes of leather against my hips turn into hits- a slow morphing. Gentle whacks around the ass and thighs get harder. He moves down the legs. Back up. Time for a real hit, one on the ass, that wakes me up. All my attention is focused on the present moment. Where will the next hit be?
My only job at this moment is to give up control and trust in my sadist. Because that is the game.
I am a control freak. It is impossible for me to give up my control. My sadist, literally, has to beat it out of me...
The next hits are on my shoulders- my favorite place. Closer to my brain. The pain seems faster. Undiluted. He moves from shoulder to shoulder. I like the sharpness. Each sting brings me to this present moment, to my own body, aware of every square inch of me. Sharp stings turn into burn, as the skin gets tired.
The pain of repeatedly hitting the same place, that burn, seems like it is getting to be too much, but I can't say anything. That would ruin the game. But I don't have to, my sadist sees what I am feeling, and moves on to a new spot. He knows.
The burn travels up and down my body, and I start to yelp. I cry out. I whimper. It's a language, and he can read it better than I can, to be honest. When the yelp gives way to a whimper of a certain timbre, along with a defeated slump of the shoulders, or some other signal I am not aware of, the sadist knows that he is taking my just beyond where I am comfortable. The pain is overwhelming. I am burning, I can feel heat rising off my back. I don't want another hit, but a few more come. I don't want any more, I feel like the skin might break... and he stops. I let some tears go.
He holds my head and says that I did well.