(This is part 2, here’s part 1, important to read first)
See, stuff like this always gets me in trouble, because then I have to continue telling you… the rest of the story, as they say.
My head racing, my body surrendering… that time when you give in to the animal side of things is in full swing. I feel that knowing head-rush, that urgency. It’s delicious.
Just as I pass the point of no return, it hits me.
“Um, just what do you think is going on,” snakes through the air and into my consciousness. Holy crap. The realization of what’s going on. The fantasy raging in my head, in my hand, the animal “screw it all!” going on … down there.
“I suggest you stop…” I hear you say. I do. But of course we’ve passed that point, but not gotten all the way to the OTHER point. So, shit.
I’m standing at full attention, as they say, but instead of enjoying a really nice solo orgasm, my cock seems to have taken on a mind of it’s own, convulsing bit, screaming at me, then, finally, what seems like an act of defiance about 20 seconds later as I’m looking you in the eye, it dribbles.
I’m busted. Not only “in the act” as they say, but completing that act, breaking the house rules. Sure, there are times when it’s perfectly ok, demanded even, other situations, other scenarios.
This, this is not one of those times. This was born out of my getting caught up in the fantasy of the moment, a fling as it were. A quick “holy crap it would be hot if…” moment.
My skin is electric. My mind is screaming. My hand poised.
I literally don’t know what to do or say. I can’t deny it. I can’t pretend. I can’t even hide it. Hell, I can’t even say I didn’t actually do it, as my body is oozing with the evidence. You can see the dilemma, written all over my face. You can feel my utter failure at trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do or say here.
“I’m pretty sure THAT,” you say, pointing at me “THAT is not on the approved outings list, so to speak.”
My body is cringing, but it’s this frustrated, ruined O, caught in the act, surprising, embarrassed, frustrated at my own lack of control, defiant, busted and speechless cringe. Yeah, one of those.
“Get my bag…”
Right about now, my head explodes with excuses. Luckily, I keep them to myself. The one predominant thing though – I’ve heard and read that impact play, after an orgasm, is substantially more painful than before. Never experienced that particular thing before, but I was about to find out – and I’m hoping that the fact that it wasn’t “all the way” helps me.
I lay out your bag of instruments. From your crop to your paddles to floggers and all sorts of evil things. You hold your hand out and slowly turn it over, telling me to do the same.
I don’t even get fully situated before I hear, then feel the WHOOSH – SMACK and know you’ve grabbed the crop. The sting echos through me. Before I can even take a breath, it repeats, on the other cheek. The sting, the heat on my skin is sharp, hot, screaming. Another, then another.
As this goes on, you move from implement to implement. Wooden spoon, silicon paddle, wooden paddles. My butt is a wicked canvas of pink, red and soon to be bruised marks.
After every implement, you roll me to the side a bit. I can’t figure out what you’re doing, until a bit of the way later. “You’re going to want to get rid of that turkey timer if you want this to stop… ” You’re looking to beat my erection out of me. A weird disconnect we both know I don’t control, and we both know is even more insistent after a ruined.
It’s going to be a very painful lesson learned.