I Need …
I’m going to need you to be rough with me today. I need to be beaten. Beaten in a way that involves my ass and your hand, or a paddle, or one of your hard-backed books, or your belt, or anything else that you can think of that’ll have the same effect. Why? Because it’s been a crappy day. The type of day that can only be turned around with some horny heavy-handedness that leaves me just the right amount of bruised and battered. And I need to do more than just feel it; I need to see it. I need it to linger, fingertip-shaped bruises left on the inside of my thighs to remind me of just how hard you grabbed me, for days to come. I need to wince when I sit down because of the bright red outlines of your hand on my ass cheek, welts emblazoned across my skin that mark me as yours.
I need to drape myself over your knees. I’ll hike up the skirt of my dress to around my waist, leaving my underwear exactly where it is so you can take your time unwrapping me. You can rub your fingers under my satin-soft knickers, straying dangerously close to the folds between my legs as you push the material down between my cheeks to leave the rest of my ass on show, but I don’t want you to touch me there. Not yet. Maybe not at all. I don’t need to cum right now. I need something else. I need you to do something else: to really get to grips with my ass. Massage my flesh. Grab it, fistfuls of it, slightly harder than you think I’ll like. Knead it. Get the blood pumping and ready to slightly cushion the painful stings that you know – and I hope – will come soon. Lull me into a false sense of security first, though. Make me comfortable. Stroke and caress and grab me into a state of relaxation so that I’m not really ready when you bring your flat palm down on my skin with a stinging slap. Because I want to feel the full force of that slap, wincing as the jets of pain shoot out from the point of contact. I need it.
You’ll tell me to count to ten as your hand comes crashing down on me. We’ll do it together, each slap getting slightly harder than the one before. Somewhere between 7 and 8 I’ll get giddy from the pain, but I need that. Exactly that. I’ll want it to end … but I’ll also want to get to the end. The sense of accomplishment I’ll feel when I get there will be as intoxicating as the act itself, everything heightened and intensified afterwards because the bond between us had been fully forged. You trusted me to finish it, all ten slaps. And I trusted you to deliver exactly what you said you would – what I told you I needed – knowing you’d stop if I said our safe word out loud.
I need to be played with until I’m exhausted. Toyed with until I can’t walk to the bathroom, let alone out of the house for dinner. Caned and whipped and spanked and slapped until my pale skin is a red, blotchy, bruising mess of contact marks. I need to feel it – what we did – during, after, the next day, maybe even the day after that. My thighs and ass need to feel as if they’ve been worked out, and not just in an I’ve-been-to-the-gym kinda way. They’re screaming to be put to work; to clench and grapple and squeeze and retreat; to ache in that beautifully painful way that comes after tensing hard and bracing for the brutal onslaught.
I need to be someone’s submissive, someone’s toy …
I need a Dom.
