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Monday, February 11, 2013

Switch

I'm a bit on the sub side of life. I play light with masochism. I enjoy being called a dirty slut or a stupid whore in bed. I like to feel the sting of a palm crack against my cheek or my hair being pulled with enough force to induce the watering of my eyes. I like being told what to do, when to do it. I find pleasure in begging for my release before I am allowed to let it flood my body. I want to be tossed around like a rag doll, used like a toy. Most times those lovely little bruises marring my flesh in unseen places feel like a naughty secret memory I carry on my skin. My favorite are the rope marks wrapped like lovely bracelets around my wrists, my ankles, and everywhere in between.
It's not always that I feel like this. I love the sweet and sensual too; just the frequency of those times are far fewer.
Then, there are times when I switch.
Sometimes I'm overwhelmed with a violent need of expression, a need to control, consume, and demand. The first time I was slapped in the face during sex I was so startled, I just grew wide eyed and paused for the merest of seconds... Then I cocked back my arm, swung full force with the fingers of my hand extended. The second my hand crashed into his face I felt the instant rush of adrenaline. Heat flooded through me and I moaned my pleasure into his mouth. I knew then, exactly how it felt to be those people who Dom. It was a heady sensation.
These cravings for dominance and sadism overcome me, and there's really no accounting for why, no trigger I can discern. At the stripclub with several friends, I met a lovely young military man. He was 6'5 to my diminished stature. Almost every man towers over me but this one even more so. He had lovely eyes, a sincere smile and an innocence about him that called to me.
I wanted to hurt him. I could feel my mouth water at the thoughts running through my head at what I was going to do with this boy who was barely legal to consume alcohol. I wanted to switch. I wanted to not only release passion in a violent burst on him, but I wanted it in return.
At the end of the night I saw him outside. He couldn't find his friends so I said, "that means you're coming home with me right?" My head was tilted back so far just to meet his gaze; my chin only coming up to his navel. He looked with wonder into my eyes and nodded. I held out my hand and he grasped it firmly in his as I led him to the car, the same way I was anticipating leading him astray.
Once we arrived at my house, hands were hastily discarding clothing. Mouths were tasting, biting, teasing. He was my jungle gym and I climbed all over him like my favorite piece of equipment on the playground. After some time spent exploring and licking and tasting of each other's essence, I settled myself on top of him. I gazed sweetly into his bright eyes and asked if he'd ever had rough sex. His eyes turned fevered with desire at my question. He tried to speak, cleared his throat and replied, "no".
Suddenly I bring my hand slamming into his pretty young face, grip his chin as I say, "you have now," then kiss his lips softly, almost lovingly, before I slap him again. I look into his eager eyes and inquire if he'd like to try, tapping my cheek with a dainty finger to indicate the target. He tries but is timid, I barely feel the sting. Here is this tall, virile young man and I am a tiny tempest. I bite his nipple hard enough that I hear the quick expulsion of air from his lungs followed by a moaning gasp as I cause his body to vellicate. I dig my nails into his flesh as I ride him hard.
I instruct him to get behind me and pull my hair. I laugh at his first attempt and taunt him, "really? You're a fucking pansy, now pull it!" I'm being pugnacious, demeaning, and pushy. These taunting words are what finally snap through his meekness and I feel my head snap back on my neck from the force of his fist in my hair, and he snarls in my ear, "shut your fucking mouth, you bitch".
Ecstasy. I find my release at his brutish handling and malicious words. He explodes at the tightening of my body around him and we both sink into bliss. I continue throughout the night to introduce him to pain and pleasure, dominance and submission. I lead, I follow, I instruct. By morning I have used this man until I have wrung every drop of energy that he has.
He's eager to tell his friends, I can tell. I'm well put together and elegant when out and he keeps remarking on how he'd never dreamed the night would go as it had. His puppy-like enthusiasm is adorable, but concerning. He starts a statement with, "since I'm going to be over here a lot now...," and I'm forced to cut him off. I laugh in his face, but consolingly kiss his sweet lips as I tell him there was no guarantee he'd be invited back, and that that was very presumptuous of him. I tell him to savoir and remember the night and that perhaps, if I feel the desire again, I'll invite him back for further explorations.

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