Warming His Cock

Deep HeatIronically, the Deep Heat had been bought originally to torture my Boy. On that occasion it had been unneeded and so it had made its way unopened into the medicine cabinet. Now it found its way out to be used to bring relief to Mat’s aching back.

While I had him lying still, I trailed my slightly contaminated fingers over his cock and watched his reactions blossom. This was clearly an avenue that needed pursuing.

“I want to be tortured by you” he whispered softly. A request no loving Domme could ignore.

Later on, we made the time to play. I took rope (for the first time in, oh, far too long) and wrapped it around his wrists. Pulling them then behind his head and taking the rope around his arms I made sure he knew that he would be lying back, unable to interfere with my pleasure. Once he had lain back with a pillow tucked under his head to ensure his comfort I fastened the end of the rope to the bed. He wasn’t going anywhere.

I opened the tube of deep heat and smeared the merest dab on the head of his cock. He complained he could hardly feel it. I grinned, I hadn’t even got started yet. I took my time, applying the cream to different areas of his cock, watching his reactions, asking for feedback; warming him up gently. His cock was hard, this was pleasure interspersed with pain.

I was aware of just how turned on I was. Enjoying the irony that Mat’s cock was something I simply couldn’t have for now. Still I had something better than sex at that moment.

I continued to torture his cock. Wrapping ribbon tightly around his balls to heighten his sensations I moved to slapping them gently while my hand continued to stroke his gently burning cock. As always, the noises my Boy makes while being tortured drove me on. I was in no hurry.

Still finally, he told me how ready he was.
“If you want me to cum”, he said,”you’re going to need to hit me harder and use a lot more deep heat”.
How could I refuse. With a fresh application of cream I continued my ministrations. I knew he hadn’t thought this through. With a deep sense of evil delight I knew this was going to hurt. So soon, he was gasping harder, and his head tipped back.
“May I cum?” his simple question.
“Oh, yes”, I breathed as I stroked him and watched his body convulse and his spunk shoot into the air.

“It’s burning, it’s burning” as his pleasure subsided the pain kicked in.
“Oh god, it hurts” he moaned. Still helpless, he whimpered in the aftermath of orgasm. This was the pain I had been saving up for him. This was my rush of pleasure.

Gently now, I untied him and held him, comforting, loving my brave Boy who had taken the torture for me and loved me still. How warmly I loved him in that moment.

Wanting To Whip Him

A quiet moment, my Boy and I alone together. He suggests I whip him later and I know, oh, how I know that I need to do just that.

Time passes slowly until we can, until other obligations met, he comes to me in frilly panties and I am waiting for him with my toys.

I pull his panties down and give him six strokes with a crop to warm us both up. Then I take up my flogger. It’s gentle enough that I know he can take it for as long as I can give. Then eventually I switch back to the crop. Harder now, this is meant to hurt.

It’s not enough. I don’t want to stop, I want to keep going. If I didn’t think he’d get bored I’d happily flog him for hours. I need to, I want to.

It’s my relaxation, my meditation. It’s our connection, our space, our time. It’s my way of saying I love him. I’m aching to pick up my flogger again soon.

Turning Into A Sadist

I don’t usually think of myself as sadistic. I’m perfectly happy whipping my boy gently, even leaving some light marks but I rarely want to cause pain.

Sometimes, I even find myself on the edge of tears as I whip him, overwhelmed by the love he gives me as he allows me to hurt him. I know then that I need that love, need to accept it, to give him the chance to give it and yet I don’t want to hurt him. In response to that love I want to hold him, to wrap him up safely and warm but this love is expressed through pain so I continue, loved and loving, despite the contradiction.

Then I took Mat out to play one night, and was introduced to the ‘spit roast’. A long thin bench to which a submissive can be strapped and which can be rotated at a variety of speeds.

Initially I fastened Mat to it with the leather straps provided but although they held him firmly he was in some discomfort as he turned, I noted the need for extra fastenings and let him go.

A little later in the evening though and I couldn’t resist trying again. Mat was blindfolded and I helped him onto the bench, smiling as I watched him realise where he was. I strapped him on and then used two lengths of rope to wrap around him spreading the load.

This time he was clearly more comfortable as I rotated him through 360 degrees. I decided to make it a little more interesting. I took the clover clamps and fastened them to Mat’s nipples. He winced as they closed on his flesh. Slowly I restarted the machine. I watched as Mat’s body stared to tip. He groaned as he realised what would happen next. As he turned, his body hung sideways and the clamps swung free and then gravity pulled them down. He yelped in pain as the weight of the clamps and the chain tugged at him.
He continued to turn until his body moved under the clips and he sighed with relief as the pressure eased and as he approached a horizontal position once again.
He breathed out his tension and the table turned until he reached the apex of his rotation…and continued to turn.
“Oh no”, he whimpered, “not again”.
I watched as the clamps swung down again and Mat groaned in pain.

As I stood watching, bent slightly over the controls, I was aware suddenly of how turned on I was, how close to cumming. I wanted then to leave Mat bound, spinning slowly, where he was; to prolong this torture indefinitely.

I have never felt like a sadist before but this time I really did. I fed on his anticipation, his fear and his pain; I loved it, needed it, wanted to make it last.

He wondered aloud what it would be like to have his cock sucked. I crouched down, taking him in my mouth as he passed through the upward part of his circle. I wanted him to enjoy it, wanted to increase his tolerance, because I wasn’t ready to stop.

In the end though I did have mercy on him. I needed to end it gently, before he had taken too much. I wanted him to be a willing victim the next time I felt like strapping him to that contraption. I wanted to be sure he would lie down willingly for me again.
I want to torture him again.

A Memorable Date

I took my boy away, to a hotel, where we could express our love as we pleased, as we needed to, where we could be ourselves.
I needed to hurt him, to keep hurting him and that is what I did; this poem tells you just how much.

Whipped

Sonnet V – A Memorable Date

Tenderly I at first caress your skin,
You stand, my naked boy, for me to touch.
Then take I up my whips, my cane so thin,
This is love’s kiss; let it be not too much.
Sixty seconds doth each long minute make
But measure we alone in counted blows.
Each stroke requested and with love you take,
Given with pride, we do not care who knows.
Six of the best could never be enough
To show each other just how much we care,
Each stripe upon your skin is not too tough,
When knowing  who it was who placed them there.
And all that love poured out ‘twixt us in pain
Bonds us as owned and owner yet again.

© Caitlin 2013

A Need To Hurt

I need to hurt my Boy.

I need to find a place, a time when I can just relax and let go and hurt him.

I need to be more than gentle. To give him more than those teasing spanks where his bottom wriggles eagerly for the next one. More than the hurried dozen strokes before something else intrudes on our time together.

What I need, right now, is to hurt him. To cause him pain. To hurt him until he wants it to stop. Wants it to stop but doesn’t stop me. Taking each blow willingly for me.

I need him bound. Committed to what is to come. Helpless to prevent it. Knowing that there is no ending until I am spent, until my love is played out in full upon his flesh.

I need to hear him crying out in pain. I need to hear his love spilling uncontrollably into the air. I need to hear his anguish. I need to hear his breath, sobbing, as he begs me not to stop until I am satisfied.

I need to hit him. Again and again and again. I need my arm to ache with tiredness and to force myself through my pain to add to his.

I need to leave his body marked and bruised. I need to know the fall of water in the shower, each casual brush of fabric against flesh will remind him for days what I have done to him. I need to see him wince as I run my hand across his flesh.

I need him to know that he is mine. That his body is mine to hurt. I need him to know he is owned, possessed and used. I need him to be willingly offered to my desires; given to my needs.

I need him to know he is loved. More than words can say or flesh can show. More than any single moment can hold. More than all of this.

I need to love him and I need to hurt him.
Sometimes those two are the same thing.