Leah Lays London

Flogged and fucked July 30, 2011

A reader e-mailed me to ask what it feels like to mix pain with sex. I thought I might use my latest meeting with Amadeo to elaborate on the experience.

The two of us were naked in his bedroom. After eating me out until my juices dripped from his chin, Amadeo used cords of hemp rope to affix my left wrist to my left ankle and my right wrist to my right ankle. With my knees propped up, I laid diagonally on the mattress with my back flat. A pillow supported my head. The blindfold negated my vision. My nipples were swollen from the clamps he had employed half an hour before. He trailed the end of his belt softly along the inner surfaces of my thighs. The touch of leather over the pubis was feather light, gentle, very nearly inconsequential. It floated over the pussy lips, barely making any contact with them. It almost tickled. Then he brought the end slashing down.

A searing pain began in the labia. Circles of hurt radiated outward as the nerves responded. I winced at the blow. My knee pulled up and my body twisted over to one side. The abrupt and angry activation of the nerve endings set me to shaking. Chest heaving, I swallowed gulps of air.

He gave me a few seconds to gather my composure. I let my weight sink into the mattress and spread my thighs open for him in acquiescence. I remembered that he had turned my ass purple the last time we had played.

This time the belt landed directly over my clitoris. After the cunnilingus, the area was excruciatingly sensitive. The hood may have been down. It would have offered feeble defense even if it were not. I screamed. There weren’t words to the bellow. It was a loud confession of pain and rage. My pubis burned with a fiery ache. I squirmed on the mattress. Deep, tearless sobs wracked my body. By exertion of will, I forced myself to take large, steady breaths. I stretched open again and waited for the next sharp blow.

Anticipation stretched out in the silence of the room. My muscles were tense. There was a tightness in my respiration. When the blow came, he struck my clit again.

I called him a motherfucker and a bastard. I wriggled against my bonds and curled one of my thighs protectively over my cunt.

Amadeo very gently eased me to lie flat on the mattress again. A slight, but insistent pressure against my knees extended the chasm between them.

He hit my thighs at the crease where they met the pubis and continued over the legs, leaving my cunt alone. This hurt, but far less than before. When he mixed in the occasional blow to my pussy, I could tolerate this pain. The sensation was not as intense as what had transpired previously.

Amadeo spit on my cunt twice and rubbed the saliva over the lips with the knuckles of his hand. I knew that the next blows would hurt. I gripped the bonds between my hands and my feet, steadied myself, and waited. Indeed, he struck the labia as I had known he would. He missed slightly, so it was a glancing blow rather than a direct hit. He corrected for the mistake, compelling my knees open, flashing the leather down from immediately above. This one really scorched. I sobbed under the blindfold without actually crying and shrieked my fury at him. He folded the belt over and strapped me again. Quite deliberately, the sting landed in exactly the same place as the one before. I spit at him — it was the only thing I could do — but as I was blind, missed badly in my attempt. The globule of expectorate arced onto my breasts. He hawked in my face to show me how it should be done and slapped each of my cheeks.

He traded the belt for the cat-o’-nine-tails. He swung this instrument more freely and fiercely, with less precision than before. The multiple falls meant that several places would hurt at once. But the ache induced was also more diffuse. Additionally, I had gotten used to the whipping; the nerve endings became partially sensitized to the pain. He applied the tails to the thighs more than to the cunt. He lashed my arms, my belly, and then my breasts. I squealed impotently as the cat thudded against my tits. I heard the wooshing sound, the brief movement of air, the momentary breeze on my perspiring skin. Then came the hard landing and the needles shooting pain into the dermis.

At the last, he used the riding crop. “Bastinado,” he said, and he beat the balls of my feet. “Boobs,” he said, and slapped the breasts from the sides. “Ten over the cunt,” he said and made me count. In order to alter the direction of impact, I heard him change sides every few numbers. His hand soothed along the inside of my thigh and coaxed my legs apart. He whispered reassuring words. The gentleness stopped at speech, however. He didn’t moderate his strength.

Whipping is an exercise and an assertion of his power over me. That is the heart of its appeal. I am tied up. He can do what he wants. I surrender my body to his violence. I do this of my own accord. By refusing the security of the safeword, I volunteer to accept the next hard blow. I embrace the pain because a man to whose dominant character I have acceded gives it to me in his generosity. I wear his marks willingly over my skin. I feel so alive as the hurt is administered to me. This is my submission.

The tears started at three. My nose went runny at five. There aren’t words to describe the agony and torment I experienced at seven, eight, and nine. Ten impacted me as a blissful release. The suffering was finally over. Amid the bawling and the howling and the sniveling beneath the blindfold, I also laughed aloud at the completion of the whipping. An overriding sense of accomplishment accompanied the conclusion of the act. I had endured. The pain had excited the nerves. It made me feel awake to the moment. It echoed still. The flesh thrummed in tempo with my pulse. I hurt in places I could not name. This aroused me.

Amadeo kissed me and filled my open mouth with wine. This aroused me, too. He unknotted the rope that bound me. When both hands were free, I plucked the blindfold from my face and threw myself at him. I bit his lower lip and gave him my tongue, taking his. Large paws cupped my tits as we made out. The outside of my cunt throbbed. The muscles in my legs were suffused by ache. My shoulders smarted from being tied for so long. My ankles and wrists were raw from straining against the rope. Small, parallel welts crisscrossed the insides of my thighs. (Evidently, he had applied the cat with greater vigor than I had supposed.) My pussy lips were battered and bruised, deformed and sore. These were minor discomforts now.

“I want you to fuck me,” I told him. I stroked his cock, which was mostly hard.

He fumbled for a moment with the packaging of the condom, then gave up and bit the wrapper open. Once he was sheathed, he leaned his weight against my chest. Opening my lips for his, I fell backward. My legs spread, and his body occupied the room that I had made. I grabbed hold of the shaft and placed it at the entrance of my pussy. Gravity took care of the rest. Amadeo penetrated me, sinking all the way in all at once. I sighed in relief and happiness at the sudden fullness of my cunt. The presence of cock gratified me. It was the axis of my globe. Raising the pelvic floor, I collapsed the muscles of the vagina around the shaft. My ankles hooked about his buttocks, and my arms wrapped his back to compel him closer to me. He fucked me with energetic movements of the hips and pelvis. His lips told me with kisses and words how beautiful I was. His fingers combed through my hair, which was soaking wet. He had not come yet. I had barely touched his penis during foreplay. He did not last long inside my much abused pussy. He lasted long enough to have me convulsing about his erection in the half minute before his own climax.