Riding Crop Erotica (What Should’ve Been)

You said you wanted to test the ‘smackiness’ of the riding crop as I bent over the kitchen table, but that didn’t happen. We should go back to it, think about it some more, savour the idea.

You could’ve firmly, but gently nudged me over that table once we’d gotten home, maybe told me how much you’d been looking forward to bending me over it. I’d have giggled and gleefully gotten into position: forearms rested on the table, legs straight, back bent, ass pushed high up in the air. It’s the perfect position for a spank or two, over my jeans, just to get the blood flowing. Slowly, of course. You’d take your time. 

You wouldn’t ask me to get undressed yet, but you would start with a few gentle whacks of that riding crop. My left buttock first, then the right, still over my jeans, still to get the blood flowing. You know, to test the ‘smackiness,’ to see how it sounds, to tease me with a preview of what’s to come. Another spank or two. Another whack of the crop of two. Nothing too crazy or wild. Yet.

Eventually we’d head to the bedroom, shedding sweaters and socks and jeans as we go. It’s urgent, but not. We’ve got the entire night, after all. But I want you to let rip with that riding crop on my ass, and I think you’d want to do that, too. Properly. Slowly. Building up with each stroke. So, I’d make my way to bed, then drape myself over it, bare ass revealed for you to abuse as you so wish.

You’d start with your hand, of course, massaging and slapping and pinching the skin until it changes from pink to red beneath your touch. You’d surprise me with intermittent kisses, soothing the throbbing skin that will probably hurt later, but in all the best fuck-flashback ways.

Then, comes the crop. I love the way it violently moves the air around it before it contacts my skin: the whizzing sound, followed by the crack, followed by a delayed stinging that’s then closely followed by a groan of enjoyment. It’s an equation that works every single time, without fail. Maths, with a sprinkling of biology and heaps of chemistry.

I almost crave the pain. It’s like therapy. The best therapy. Each hit from the crop sends the stresses of life further and further from my mind until all that’s left is you and that crop and the way my skin – and my body – feels like it’s on fire.

The pain-pleasure matrix has always fucked with my mind a little, in mostly the best ways. It’s a tormenting kind of pleasure, the kind you need to work for. Yes, I can have that incredible ripple of goosebumps that erupt across my skin, but first, I must deal with the torture of that crop… and the torture of not knowing just how hard the next hit will be. Hard? Soft? Somewhere in between? Crop? Hands? Mouth? Nobody knows. Perhaps you wouldn’t even know. The not knowing is erotic in itself, a twisted form of foreplay that turns you on from the brain-down.

Fuck, I love it.

You wouldn’t stop with just my ass, though. Oh, no. In my mind, you’d have been much more imaginative than that. You’d have laid me down on the bed, perhaps added a blindfold, then dragged the cool leather of that riding crop across my naked body. Lips, nipples, torso, cunt, thighs, then all the way back up again. Random touches. A slap, a drag, a whack. Do I like it when you gently tap that crop against my cunt? My clit? My nipples? How about harder hits? How about blindfolded hits? Torment me again with the not-knowing. Make the not-knowing even more intense with the blindfold. Twist me inside out with that riding crop, until I’m begging for you to just stop and fuck me.

But don’t give in, of course.

Admire your handiwork. Watch as the skin changes colour, then rises into welts that you can feel under your fingers. Tease me more. Lightly drape the crop over my skin. Don’t touch me. Wait for me to beg for you to touch me. Wait for me to tell you what to try next, then ignore every direction I give. Do all the things you’ve always wanted to do with a riding crop, but never been brave enough to ask. Do the things that pop into your mind out of nowhere. Do the things I’ve asked you to do, at times I’m not expecting it. Do everything, all of it, with me.

Don’t you think that would’ve been more fun?

Don’t you think we should revisit that riding crop again?