Saturday, February 5, 2011

Discomfort Me With Apples, Part Two

Read Part One

I kneel on the bed, cautiously, hesitantly, as if it is a worn wooden bench outside a barn, as if splinters are poised to break the bare skin of my knees should I move too quickly. I am also tentative of the unknown. The belt hurt more than I expected it to, more than I wanted it to hurt. The balance of character and self is precarious. I want to be playing with Mr. W; the apple thief does not want to be punished any longer.

As wife, I know I'm wet, know I'm ready for Mr. W to take the scene where it always leads, but the swish of a cane through the air behind my poised backside lets me know the farmer is not ready to let the apple thief off so easily. I clutch a pillow just before the cane lands.

Thirteen strokes of the belt have not properly warmed my bottom and I lurch forwards into the pillow to stifle my howl of pain. A tap on my lower back reminds me to return to position, kneeling on my hands and knees properly with my back arched and bottom presented. I tensely shift back, not ready but not wanting to seem unwilling.

The next stroke cuts full across the spot where bottom meets thigh, and though I begin to wimper, the thief, who can say the things I would not, says through clenched teeth, "That. Fucking. Hurt."

"Maybe this will help with the pain," Mr. W says. He goes to the nightstand and I think he's going to pull out one of the smaller paddles, something to finish warming me before the remaining eleven cane strokes I know he still wants to give me. Trusting in my husband, I close my eyes.

He returns to his place behind me, stroking my bottom, then clutching the flesh beneath his palm, pulling me open so that I feel even more naked than I already am. His finger touches the orifice between my reddened cheeks, pressing just a little. I relax into the touch. He presses deeper, then pulls out. I think I am about to receive a gentle leather paddling, something sexy, something that will finally send the farmer and the thief from the room. Instead, he presses into me again, this time with something thicker, firmer. It's not flesh. I recognize the toy we bought just weeks ago specifically for this purpose, for this spot, and irrationally, indignantly, the apple thief rears back. "Sir! I hardly think I know you well enough for that!"

Mr. W, clever farmer that he is, pushes me back down. "You've been on this farm before," he says.

I can't hold back. I snort, then giggle, then I'm all out laughing. He begins to laugh too, and the tenseness of the entire scenario is broken. I wiggle my bum at him. "You're right," I say, "I have been on this farm before. I remember now why I came back."

He slides the toy into me and I groan, but happily. The caning begins again. I don't have to count aloud, I just have to take it, holding the toy inside me, trying not to cry out too loudly. It still hurts - it's a caning, after all - but the fear is broken and I ride the pain as I love to do. The strokes are slow, with plenty of recovery time. Tears form but it's nothing I can't stand.

We get to stroke ten and Mr. W pauses. "Three left," he tells me, his voice low and rough, the voice that means he wants the caning to be finished as much as I do, the voice that says he, too, is ready to be inside me. "Would you like your last three to be gentle and slow, or hard and fast?"

"Hard and fast," I say without thinking. He rubs my welts for a moment, surely planning the final three. As he rubs, I reach down to touch myself, not surprised to find how wet and swollen the play has made me. My fingers stray back a little; the toy is still firmly in place. Mr. W sees my exploration and strikes the air with the cane, prepping. "Ready?" he asks.

"Yes," I breathe. Three strokes land in an explosion of agony, but so quickly I can barely breathe, nevermind scream. He throws the cane down, pulls my hips back, and drives into me. I am completely filled. The arch of pain from the last strokes has not yet finished and the combination of toy and man is still so new as to be overwhelming. Moments in, I'm already coming, the orgasm rendering me back to my complete self.

But as the apple thief leaves the room, she and I are finally in agreement about one thing: she'll be back to this farm again.


  1. I. LOVE. These. Posts. Fantastic, sex, tense writing. I love the way you articulate the resistance and fear which is so incomprehensible when you want to play, but so common when you're playing hard without a warmup. I remain anxious about that, when I can't take what I've been fantasising about, what I've asked for, and the way you express how normal, how justifiable that fear is without losing your grip on your desire is erotic to read, and reassuring to hear.

    The moment in this when the tension breaks is just perfect. Absolutely perfect. Hooray for laughter and partners who are comfortable with it. Hooray for effortlessly blending roleplay with sex play.

    I have a suspicion "I've been on this farm before" might become a catchphrase...

  2. I'm afraid this post has left me far less articulate than it left Pandora...

    Utterly and delightfully hot!

  3. Pandora - What's funny is that your comment made me feel normal, because I always feel so ridiculous when I can't fully get into the headspace of a scene, or when I become afraid of what I've been wanting. It's both comforting and encouraging that it turns out that we all, or many of us at least, go through that same set of emotions of fear, excitement, and nervousness all at once.

    At the time, despite the humor, I hadn't been craving a return to "the farm," but now that I've written about it, I'm considering stealing a higher number of apples...

  4. Indy - Thank you! After I posted it, I asked Mr. W to read it, and I had even asked him, "It's hot, right?" I'm happy you came up with the same ass-essment! (Sorry, I heart bad puns.) But I do like getting the blood boiling. We were in agreement over the hotness, though thank goodness he read it because I get so excited when I write these things that I do end up with some bizarre typos.


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