writingdirty

Dirty stories by Jack Stratton

Tag: beating

A Casual Beating

In this new life, I have slipped into a variety of completely new relationships. I’ve always been the kind of person who has a small circle of very close friends and I tended to shy away from the masses of acquaintances people seem to collect in this city. Now I seem to be joining ever-growing groups of interesting and open-minded people. This has led to months of fun, flirty and often fierce conversation. In some ways these connections are almost better than all the sex and exploration. (Almost, but not quite.)

I hadn’t considered my sadistic side very much until about a year ago. If anything, I had often thought that I was squeamish about really hurting someone and that might be a real hindrance to being a dom. After a few enthusiastic scenes and I found that the little seed of a sadist in me was starting to bloom. The key, I realized, was playing with masochists.

It’s funny how your personality changes in certain situations. I’ve noticed all these parts of myself that come out when I am doing certain things. The seducer, looking at sex as a challenge and an artform. The toppy boyfriend, with his sarcasm and teasing. The daddy, who is overprotective while being dirty. The aspiring rigger, with his knitted brow and stern focus. The sadist, who is almost constantly wearing an evil grin and always thinking of the next form of torture.

So as I was saying, besides the cadre of smart and sexy friends with whom I converse, there are a few smart and sexy girls that I beat up on a somewhat regular basis. It’s interesting, because in general these are not exactly sexual relationships, though certainly they all have sexual elements. Mostly, though, they are about administering pain.

For example, here is a tale of a girl – well not really one girl but sort of an amalgam of a few people I know. There are too many scenes in my head and writing about the important parts of each would take too long. But basically, this is what I’m talking about…

We had been on a few dates, after work drinks, talking and flirting and exchanging the social currency of anecdote and background.

In this time we used the complex mating language of eyes and subtext to explain our emotional availability. We danced around our proclivities. We ferreted out kinks and occasionally just came out and owned our desires.

Negotiation came later. By then we had reached that plateau of reasonable trust and adequate acquaintance. The fourth date would be at my apartment.

She was on her mid twenties, bright, educated, good job, interesting life. The city seems to either breed the complicated or pull them magnet like from all points of the compass.

Dark hair with severe bangs and thick glasses. She had a wealth of interests which showed her curiosity, which to me is the most important virtue. She was cute if not pretty but her style brought her look up. She knew how to wear clothes. She was an artist through and through, but more than that she was an artist who could make a living which was certainly a precious thing in this city.

“I’m a masochist,” she said rather plainly. “I had a boyfriend who I finally convinced to spank me, but he never hit hard enough and it always just left me unsatisfied.”

“‘I don’t want to hurt you, baby, I love you,’ is what he’d say.” she quoted in mocking a luggish tone.

I understood very well. The spanking was the gateway from vanilla to kink in many ways. It was still socially acceptable, if a bit risky by Cosmo standards. Still for many it was a glimpse of that new world we wanted to explore a lot more thoroughly.

Back at my apartment we had giddy grins and drinks. A conversation on the couch about work and the world, while both of us shifted closer and thought about how to start things.

“So, you liked that last story I wrote, hm?” It’s a way to gain a little control and bend the conversation towards where we both want to take it.

“Yeah, you could say that. I think I came six times. I soaked my sheets.”

I watched her eyes, there was some instinctual shame, but she actively fought it. She wanted to be bold, she wanted to own it.

“Well, I guess you owe me.” I said, reaching over and caressing her breasts, finding the nipple, pinching it roughly as I watch her reaction.

It was silly, really, but nothing is better than a little ego-stroking to build one’s confidence. I moved in and kissed her, then my hand moved up to her hair and pulled her head back so I could drag my teeth across her naked neck.

I’ll skip the rest of the beginning. I’ve certainly told the tale of a girl being bent over the arm of my couch and spanked far too many times. I will say this: While spanking her and getting her warmed up I did what I always do to partners in this situation. I progress quickly at first to find that line, how much they can take. There is always that level when they start squirming away from the blows. Some of them say “ouch” or the ones who are more experienced in more formal scenes even say “yellow”.

I kept hitting her and measuring and there was no yellow point. Harder and harder I spanked, but she gritted her teeth and took it. The few times I leaned over her body and whispered my little check-up questions into her ear, she just nodded. She was fine, I should keep going, harder.

That’s when I knew I was going to get to cane someone for real.

I only have one cane, though I am looking to remedy this. It is long and black and thin, sting-y and direct.

It’s sad, but I have to chide myself and force myself to start slow. I knew she had to be warmed up. I knew I had to be patient and calculating.

She is obedient and follows my every direction perfectly. Frankly it was all really more sensation play than dominance. A beating, not a punishment. I don’t want her to call me “sir,” I just want her to do what I say and take every stinging lash.

When I start, it is just a little bounce of the cane on her naked ass. Her skin is red from the spanking and flogging, with a circle of light purple where I had hit her the hardest, but the cane makes fresh and crisper red marks. Lines form, even from this light bouncing.

That first real hit, that first time the cane cuts through the air, is perfect. When the first blow lands her back arches. She takes it, but it is a lot even for her. She has only ever really had hands spanking her. I hit her three more times, once on each cheek and then once across both. Her hands don’t come up to protect her tender flesh the way other girls’ have, but she is suddenly still. I let the pain reverberate. I let her feel it and process it. I put my hand on her back and steady her, let her know I understand that it hurts and I am letting her deal with it.

Each time leaves three lines, red, then white, then red again. As I bounce the cane on her skin again I see that the four hard hits have started to bruise already. It makes me hard. It makes me giddy. I want to ruin her. I want to mark her. I want her to feel these marks all week and get wet every time she sits down and winces.

I go to work on her, bouncing the cane harder, making little syncopated rhythms that I remember my drummer friend taught me. I wait until the skin is red and hungry and then I hit her hard a few times, relishing each. I hit her harder, pulling my hand back farther and taking full swings that turn purple immediately.

She finally breaks a little and lets out an “ouch.” She doesn’t block me, though, she just slumps forward a little. I soothe her, I continue the bouncing as I pull her back into place. I place medium hits on spots that aren’t bruised. There is some minute change in her reaction and I take it as a sign we should move on for a bit.

When I pulled her up, her legs don’t respond properly and I am holding her. I laugh and push her against the wall. She gasps and smiles. I know the white wall is hard and cold.

My hand moved down her body and slips between her thighs. She is so wet her thighs are slick. She buries her head in my shoulder as the pleasure overtakes her for a moment. I push her away. It’s not cuddling time. It’s not pleasure time. Those will come.

I slapped her breast hard. Her eyes flash open. I cup each one and slap it down. She looks unsure how to take this. She is squirming.

“Do you like that?”

She nodded quickly, eagerly.

“Has anyone done this before?”

She shook her head. It’s hard for her to talk when she gets in this space. Important to note and damn adorable. I slap her harder, focusing on her nipples. Slap, slap, waiting for her wince, measuring out the limits of this new activity.

“Why do you like it?”

“It hurts.” She has that sort of look in her eyes that tell me that this was once something she was ashamed of, but now she was proud, or at least comfortable. Her tongue is thick in her mouth and it is hard for her to create sentences now, but she tried to continue.

“I also like it because I can see it. Usually it’s my ass and I can’t see it happen.”

I devour the flush in her face when she says this. This is useful information. Information means I can hurt her in more complicated ways.

I hit her breasts a few more times and relished her winces. She is so tough when I am spanking her, but her breasts are a lot more tender and she isn’t used to the sensations.

I was thinking of how else I could hurt her while she watched it happen. I like the idea of that. I remembered back at a sex conference when I watched a guy give a caning demo. It was really the first time I had ever seen someone get caned and the first time it really clicked that hitting someone and making marks on them was something I needed to do.

The top had his demo bottom sit on a table and he caned her lap. Talking to all of us as his rattan cane bounced up and down on her thighs. Progressing from tapping to hitting as she squirmed and moaned. That seemed perfect now. I got a towel and put it down on the cushion and then had her sit on said towel.

Probably my most powerful urge, one that’s been around a lot longer than sadistic desires, it to make a woman have an orgasm. Not help, not assist, but make. To force her to come. To have control over her body and her pleasure and to use a significant and powerful human reaction as nothing more than a tool for my amusement.

This whole time I was fully dressed. That was part of the scene, though I didn’t realize that for a while. She was a plaything, being stripped and used and played with. I was playing and amused by her arousal and entertained by her pain. She was naked because she is a slut and I am dressed because I am above the base needs she is tormented by, or so the game goes.

I got out some toys, fresh from ziplock bags, sterile and ready.

Some girls go into a dreamy place when they are being beaten. Some get feisty and fight back, kicking and cursing. This girl smiled, eyes just out of focus, and she giggled as she was hurt.

I plugged into the wall my favorite vibrating implement and shoved it between her half closed legs. I pushed her back a bit, manhandling her, and got the head of the condom covered toy against her clit. I closed her legs against it, letting the towel and her thighs hold it in position. As I turned it on I struck the tops of her thighs again with my cane.

She bit her lip, she ground against the vibrator and then winced as the cane left thin marks on her legs.

I switched to the riding crop, taking it to her breasts, the only place so far I was able to get a real reaction. I hit the tender bottoms of each breast, then the sides, the quick snaps on the nipples that made her cry out.

When I flipped her around, her knees on my couch and her arms and head hanging over the arm she was starting to get disoriented. I liked it when the pain and pleasure made them stupid. It is the point when you can really start to have fun.

I let loose with the cane a few times, the marks I had left before now a sharp violet. I crossed those line with fresh red and that made her jump. She wasn’t so tough anymore and when she pulled away from the cane I went to work on her with the vibrator.

This cycle started, cries and yelps followed by moans and whimpers. The cane and then the vibrator until she whined every time I pulled the vibrator away. I hit her a few more times and then held her down and pressed the vibrator on high against her sopping sex.

She mewed and tensed and came hard against me, pulling at my arm. When she was done pulled the vibrator away and just as she sighed in relief I pushed it back against her now over sensitive clit.

She fought against the overstimulation, but I held it to her, I let her ride it out until her hips were bucking again and she came even harder.

When she came down this time, I sank into the couch next to her and held her as she gasped for air and shivered. I petted her hair and smiled at her and soothed her, careful not to touch her still hot and stinging ass.

When we finally got up I saw something spectacular. It was my first real masterpiece. Her ass was almost uniformly purple with lines of wine red and angry pink and speckles of her pale skin showing through. I spun her around and marveled at it. Her thighs had a few scattered lines but nothing like her ass.

It was perfect. She kept touching the raised marks and smiling at her little prize. She was just as happy as I was, because this was the first time she’d gone this far and gotten when she’d been fantasizing about.

Through that next week I emailed her, checking in on the progress. The bruises lasted weeks. Those first few days she could hardly sit and she had to go to the bathroom of her office and finger herself because the pain was so intense and the memories so inescapable.

Kissing Chronicles – After the Drought

Kissing Chronicles – After the Drought

Kissing is one of my favorite things to do. It’s funny, I was in a long relationship where kissing was not really a focus. It was a brief bit of foreplay before sex or a once in a while affirmation of affection, but it was never an activity unto itself. It wasn’t until after that relationship that I really rediscovered making out, how much I love it and how good I am at it!

I’d just reentered the dating scene. I was awkward, nervous, unsure of the rules. Looking back, how stupid was I? I was on a business trip and she was showing me around town. It was nice and friendly and sweet, but we had talked a little about attraction. We had admitted desire and now she was in my hotel room, and it was late. Were we were going to just play Scrabble?

I sat across from her, my heart beating a little faster every time I looked up at those bright eyes and then down at that figure. It seems wrong to distill someone into one characteristic, I mean she was smart and quirky and fun, but it always came back to those tits. It seemed like I spent almost every second near her trying not to look at them.

There were other charms, her eye for details that caught me off guard, her various knowledges and interests. She was awkward, too, but in a different way and for different reasons. As time goes by and it is just a memory I remember the physical things, the way her lips made me swoon.

When she said, “So I thought you were going to kiss me,” I was struck dumb by the embarrassment of not acting on the obvious hints she was dropping.

“I am! I mean, I was going to… I mean…” I don’t know what I was trying to say, but then I was on the couch next to her, our Scrabble game half finished, and I was smiling and she was kind of smirking amusedly and then I was in that trajectory, that all or nothing move in.

We were both laughing a little and then we weren’t. That first contact, that first kiss with new lips, that point at the apex of flirting and smiling and touching and then moving in closer and closer… then the brush of soft dry skin on skin. Then pushing together, your bodies getting closer and hands falling onto hips or backs. You become hyperaware. Aware of where your hands are on her and the warmth of her body under her clothes. Aware of where her hands are on you and when they tighten or loosen or claw at your shirt, hungry for more contact.

We kissed, a chaste kiss, pulled apart and smiled, and then before I could say something stupid we went back for more. Now our lips were wet and our mouths were bolder. Kissing and sucking bottom lips, top lips, experimental opening of mouths. Finding that rhythm, finding out how the other person works.

Kissing is a lot more complex than people realize. Not complicated, but complex because there are so many things going on at the same time. There are a lot of split seconds decisions to be made and a lot of things you can mess up. You have to be in tune with your partner and know how to lead and go with the flow. There is a give and take, like dancing or fighting.

I’ve been with good kissers and bad kissers and aggressive kissers and passive kissers. This girl was a good kisser, which was mind blowing after years of neglect in the kissing department. Her lips were soft and her mouth was sweet. She followed my lead half the time and took control the other half. That’s the way it is supposed to be, a delicate wrestling match. Tides of pushing and pulling and teasing and swooning.

Soft new person kissing leading into deeper kisses, little sighs becoming deeper breathing. Her hands on my arm, on my side. Her mouth opening a little here and there. Then mine opening, then little testing slips of my tongue. The sweetness of her tongue in my mouth, the intimacy of it.

Pushing her hair back, my fingers in the silky tangle, her sigh as I stroke her hair. Then a sudden pull away. She looks at me through hazy eyes. We are both lust drunk. I move in but not to her lips, to her neck. She gasps a little and I smile into her skin.

It’s nice to know her secrets. From the minute my lips touched the flawless skin of her neck forever I knew that it was her weakest point. All my want and all of her charms and I had a key. It sounds almost cold and calculated now to see it that way, but we all have locks and labyrinths to our passion. Finding the way in is part of the whole lovely little game.

As a boy my mind tends to go in certain directions. Sometimes I have to will myself to enjoy the kiss because my hands and body want to take over. I get eager, especially with those breasts calling me, pressing against my chest. My hand just under one and the heat radiating from her body through the soft fabric of her shirt and my eyes and body clenching with the anticipation of softness and as my thumb hits the bottom of her bra my heart starts beating faster.

I moved up a little, testing, the kiss kept up, move, further, wanting her so badly. I kissed her deeper as my hand slipped up and a shiver filled me as I cupped her breast and felt the fullness of it. Who knew such a simple act could be so hot, just feeling her breasts, but it was ridiculous in its intensity.

Her kisses kept pulling me back though. I had to keep up with her tempo and now her body was shifting on the couch. Soon she was lying and I was on top of her. Our parts aligned and our bodies becoming part of the kiss.

We went in little cycles. Focusing on sucking each lip, top and bottom. Little nips and long pulls. Twirling tongues just dancing across each other and then long deep kisses, exploring, wet and decadent.

Her body under me was lithe and hot. She ground against me as I pushed against her. I kissed her neck again and it was still wet where my mouth had been. I pushed up both of my hands, feeling her breasts again, wanting more. The tempo was up and up and up.

I don’t remember how far we went that first night. I vaguely remember going to the bed, awkward conversation as I pulled her shirt off. I remember the hotness of seeing her in her bra for the first time. To this day I’m still fixated on her breasts. They are really spectacular. I also remember finding out that girls who kiss well often do other things with their mouth well.

More than anything I remember kissing longer than I had ever kissed before, like I’d found some new trick my body could do and I intended on taking advantage of it. We spent two weeks straight kissing. Every imaginable kind of this, hard to soft, violent to vulnerable. From the first kiss to the kiss goodbye.

Processing Jealousy

Don’t worry kids, the angsty self analysis will be short lived and Mister McIntyre’s Secret Part 9 is on it’s way.

I’ve been on this wild dating and sexing roller coaster for about 14 months now. Roughly since the day I ended the six year relationship I was in from 25-31 with… let’s call her The Girl Professor. Not that before that relationship I was a prude by any means, I had some interesting times and I got around, but you know something is different when in the last year you have slept with as many women as all the years before combined. I’d say that’s a change in the status quo.

So many dates, some with new people, some second or third dates, some with the sort of long term friends you make when you are in this kind of run. It’s certainly not all sex, to be sure, but it is all interesting. The constant state of arousal, the flirting from so many directions. New people all the time and new kisses. New bodies and new secrets. I fell into two relationships in that time, each lasting a few months. Both were wildly intense and full of amazing conversation, fun and probably some of the best sex of our lives.

I read stories of emotionless sex, zipless fucks, random group play and in most cases it leaves me cold. I like intense connections. I like learning someone’s secrets and knowing their bodies and kissing and touching for hours. If it isn’t intense then why bother. If it doesn’t make me happy then I’d rather skip it. At the same time I can imagine a plaything, someone to be a pet and to just have fun with. So many relationships seem to move so quickly. People wanting different things. Sometimes I wish for something completely superficial. Someone I can try out all my fun toys on and make moan and cry. A pet. I am ambivalent about the whole thing, no one ever seems to  stay emotionally where they say they will, including me.

Lately I have been entering new terrain. I am seeing people whose sex lives are much more public. I mean obviously I am dating on NYC, I know we all have lives and I never presume monogamy, but you don’t ask don’t tell and are completely for each other when you are together. Sex bloggers and other internet savvy loud mouths (I mean this is the nicest way since I am both) make their sex lives much more public, this means one is forced to read and think about things he doesn’t necessarily want to read and think about.

A friend said something that has been rumbling in my head for a while now. When talking to her about the various dramas going on and what I am doing to belay them she told me that I was learning how to “process jealousy”. Now I tend to take phrases like that and roll my eyes, but I realize more and more that it is exactly what I am learning to do.

I’ve never been a particularly jealous person, that is until I was cheated on. When my long relationship with The Girl Professor ended suddenly and very violently. I’m a grownup, I know infidelity (when in agreed monogamy) is a symptom of a relationship that is already over, not the cause of that ending. It wasn’t the sex either, I am a sexual person and I can understand passion even inappropriate passion, it was the love. She fell in love with someone else (or at least convinced herself of such) and that ruined me for a long time.

This was the first time I was cheated on and my reaction was not what I expected. First of all I became repulsed by her. I’d never been into any cuckold type fantasies, but as much as I couldn’t understand them before now they confuse the shit out of me. I didn’t even want to be in the same room as her. Actually I sort of made she we wouldn’t be in the same time zone, which is working out for the best for everyone involved.

I also became uncontrollably angry at the guy, which is very unlike me. I was dreaming of hunting him down and beating him. Literally I would have dreams I was hitting him with a bat. These are the two reactions jealousy has on me, rage and disgust. Not conducive to an ongoing relationship.

Now I find myself trying to work through these feelings, even find to positive aspects of them. I see people I like and trust and watch how they play as a couple and apart. I think about my feeling and why I want to see other people and then thing about my partners and how their intentions are probably similar. It seems like a majority of the feelings are fear that your lover will leave you and when you realize that if that person left it would mean a whole lot about them and where your relationship was… it makes taking the chance seem brave rather than foolish.

But I am rambling. All I know is that for the last year I have woken up happier. Food tastes better and book make more sense. I feel like I am in love all the time, even while I walk around in mortal fear of that word and all of its inky implications. I feel like an adventurer and I feel like I am alive. I don’t see that changing any time soon.

I do feel myself moving in certain directions. Favoring certain people. I don’t know what that will mean or what I am willing to do for that. I don’t know how long I am willing to keep certain people at a distance so that I can keep up this lifestyle. I’m not really worried anymore though. As long as everyone is honest things seem to work out. You just have to ask for what you want and it is almost shocking how often you get it.

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