Curiosity is my own worst best enemy friend in kink. I say no out of habit to new things if they seem scary. But if it is someone I know, like, trust, enjoy, I never stop there. My brain processes the request. The idea. The toy. Especially if I’ve never felt or tried it before. The what ifs start. What if it isn’t that bad? What if I might like it? What if I regret not trying it?
This turns the no into maybe. And I continue to ponder. They don’t even have to push. They don’t even have to want me to say yes. The glint in their eye when they suggested it. The smirk, smile, or laugh when I said no. It’s a challenge. What if I did say yes? I could try it once and then decide. I could try it twice, just in case, before Really deciding. It could be fun. Learning, growing, trying new things. Isn’t that what life is all about. Hasn’t the been my whole kink journey?
That no turns to a yes, often without them ever asking a second time. Honestly, asking repeatedly is more likely to keep the no than change it to a yes. For a great number of people, though not all.
So, you see, this is how I ended up stripped down to underwear, and in a scene with a copper-tipped flogger, a sap, and a (completely dull) machete with a long-missed friend (with a single strike of a thick cable and a single muscle shocky thing for science, ya know).
It’s fun to try new things.
Start it slow. Flogger first. Floggers are nice a fluffy, at least compared to saps and machetes. This one’s not so fluffy. Sharpish tips of a flattened copper tube, little copper top hats on the ends of paracord. Sharp sensation, but not cutting. Together they’re not all that bad. Stinging like a hell, though, especially when tipped or swung with any force. But carefully applied. Not tearing the skin. Not cutting me open. I really don’t like blood.
It stings and I squeal, scream, swear and spin. Twisting turning, coming off the cross I’m only leaning against. Both of us grinning like fools. So much cursing and laughing and keeping my hands out of the way. I’m still in control enough for that at the beginning. Occasional irritated Ows just make him grin and laugh even more. All the lines and dots being painted across my chest, belly, even occasionally thighs or arms or back, when I turn too far away. It actually feels pretty good on my back.
Then we switch up to the sap. Hard deep hits. A big switch from the flogger. Solid thuds into my chest, my breasts, my belly. Laughing at my growls and staggering. Trading up between hands and the hard leather. Hard exhales and groans. Grins still so wide, it hurts my cheeks. Both having fun with my pain. Switching up to just hands for a few hard strikes. Slamming me so hard, that I’m grabbing on to him after, bouncing fully off the cross and staggering forward. Nice.
Then the machete. Solid black metal. Flat slap of the blade. Hard edge. Sharp, but not piercing point. Blood pumping, curses flying. As he digs the tip into pressure points, I forget to breathe in. Just squeals escaping out. And I have to sit.
He sits with me. Criss-cross applesauce. Knees to knees. Breathing as I get my senses back. Now chatting and admiring the bruises he has painted so far. Checking the broken skin, but there is no blood. I get my breath back and we begin again.
My legs now more available targets. When I turn my chest too far, or put my arms in the way. No mercy for my squeals of protest. Laughter meets my swearing. As I fly higher and higher, losing my ability to keep my hands behind me. I get caught one full in the hand, no biggie, but the accidental elbow strike takes a moment to recover. Funny bones never are. Writhing on the ground in front of him as the machete strikes and pokes and slams down on my flesh.
A more serious scene is nearby and we quiet for a few moments. The pain doesn’t stop, but I manage my reactions for a few minutes until I’m sure they’re well beyond caring about our noise. The machete falls and falls, pushing me further than I think I can go. Stopping just before I cannot.
I grab the machete more than I did the others. Not stopping him from poking my left nipple, but definitely more protective than the right. He pushes in anyway, twisting and I scream, but just pretending I have some control helps. I only take it away once and he just laughs and waits for me to give it back. Picking right back up smacking me with it. I don’t even remember why.
It’s the smiling, the laughter, the fun of the scene that keeps us going. Playfulness with toys of ridiculous pain. The care that is taken to make sure we are only doing the intended damage and no more, but also no less. This is what we want. There is no dynamic here, there is the challenge, the weird, the bruises and marks painted across my skin, the noises, the pain, the joy, the exchange.
Four days later and my breasts and bruises are still bright purple, moving hurts, and I am so glad we got to play.
<3