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Posts Tagged ‘flogging’

He was sitting at the chic hotel bar when I walked in: compact, muscular, with a tanned face that bespoke Greek heritage, perhaps, with bright green eyes. More attractive, needless to say, than my clients generally were. Younger, too. The problem with this is that such men tend to be obnoxious, to ask more of me than I’m willing to give, to push my boundaries. Like they’re doing me a favor.

Not this one. He’s kind, offers to buy me a drink, which I decline. He’s well-read, and a Burner. He has a low key but confident way about him that I like. I could tell this would be one of those rare instances where the client is someone I would have happily played with for free, but would never have the guts to approach at a party.

He’s booked me for three hours, and I can think of worse things to do with that time than explore the kinks of this rather yummy specimen. He tells me that he usually tops, but from time to time, he feels the need to let go, to let someone else be in control. I usually worry about this, again with the concern that he’ll be bratty or try to make me switch. But something tells me that this is a different sort of person.

The hotel is downtown, one of the swanker places in the Manhattan style – sleek black and silver, not ornate old wood. The room is spacious and inviting, and now that we’ve had our talk we start right in.

When he undresses I see that he takes care of himself, and also that he is one of those men who is never quite thin: shortish, barrel-chested, thick all over but not hairy. The hair on his head is short and curly and lovely to grab and pull.

There is something beautiful about a usually-dominant man submitting. The sincerity and thoroughness of the surrender, in this case, almost steals my breath. Many men have dropped to their knees in front of me and kissed and licked my boots. It’s all part of the script. Dig me, such subs seem to say, I know what it’s all about, how it’s done. This man knows both sides of the coin, and the way he gives over, drops his eyes, trembles in fear and anticipation, is immensely moving. When I grab his hair he actually whimpers, and is immediately in the headspace I want him in.

I love boot worship when it’s done well; when it’s not, it’s a total bore. It’s hard to say what it is that makes it well-done: I only know that when it is, it makes me wet. It’s something about the way the sub becomes absorbed in the act, doesn’t always have, literally or figuratively, one eye on me to see how I’m reacting. The boots in that moment are me, and the truly gifted bootlicker isn’t doing it only for my pleasure. His head is swimming with desire, his vision is blurred with only the blackness of leather or vinyl in its scope, his nose and tongue are full of the scent, his mouth working slowly and with focus. Most importantly, he doesn’t have that puppy-dog approval-whore thing going on: none of that aren’t I a great submissive? crap. I’m not interested in how well you play your role. I’m interested in you, and how your desires mesh with mine.

This man is with me, in the way that clients rarely are. We have seen each other, in this conversation that we shared. There is spark, here. His need for submission is great, and yet the expression of that need is specific. He is both well-trained – the way he moves is graceful yet without pretense – and totally responsive.

I’m loving this, but it’s time to move on. I’ve found a way to jury-rig dog leashes over the bathroom door and I string him up with cuffs, standing, and begin to flog his broad brown back.

I love to flog, but it’s the rare client that loves it like I do. It becomes clear, quickly, that he is one of these gems, and I go at him with a zen-like yet ever intensifying rhythm. I don’t know how long I stand there, swinging my right arm in figure-eights, harder and harder, watching his back redden and his muscles tighten and loosen, listening to him gasp and whimper and moan. Fuck. Now and then I ease off, rub his back with a cool hand, press my body into his back, my thigh against his ass, between his legs. I think, at one point, that I’ve gone too far, and I check in with him.

“Please,” he whispers as I hold my head next to his, run my nails down over his ass. “Please, more.” He doesn’t, can’t, look at me, but his body tells the whole story and it’s true. I back up and start swinging again, a few strokes to work back up to the level I’d stopped at, then harder and harder. He starts to shake, muscles spasming, hands clenching at the cuffs, and I can feel the energy flowing between us, the way his want draws the blows from me, the way I feel his need, the need I’ve so often felt myself, for just one more, one more, one more…

And then he breaks, and he’s sobbing, half-hanging from the dog-leashes and barely holding himself up. I stop swinging and move to him again, my arm wrapping up under his arm, around his chest, pressing his heart. My body against his back, feeling the waves of his tears passing through me. There is no shame here. Only release. Only love, in that strange sense that it can happen in one encounter, the true exchange between two people in a moment.

When he calms down, he tells me, “That hasn’t happened in a long time. Thank you.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, and we take a rest. But there is still so much time to go…

[Part 2.]

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