Zille Defeu’s Fetish Fantasies

My Master and I played again today! Which is somewhat rare because our schedules don’t often give us mid-week free time, and also, my Master does tend to prefer “a blank canvas” (which makes me giggle that my ass is a palimpsest!) and so he tends to prefer to play when my marks from the last time have faded. And, what with some health issues we’ve had in the past months, it’s made for a time of less frequent (but very intense, to make up for it!) play. I hope that more frequent play has returned — as my Master pointed out today, he’s been lax with my discipline recently — and I need lots of it! And I agree with him — not just in the giggly “Oooh yes I need a spanking!” way, but also in the more serious, “Yes, regular discipline is what I surely need” way.

I didn’t get around to mentioning what we actually did in our scene when last I posted, so I thought a recap of today’s play would make a nice change from my usual theoretical ramblings.

We’d put off playing least night, because we’d both had such stressful days. I suggested playing first thing in the morning, so that we’d have an opportunity before the cares and distractions of the day sucked us in. And I think it’s a good idea! Getting to play when we are refreshed and full of zeal makes for better scenes — and my pain tolerance is certainly much higher, which I prefer so much. I know my Master says he is happy giving me what he knows I can take at the time — knowing he is pushing up against my limits makes him happy no matter where those limits are. And that’s a good thing, because once a month or so my limits become much more limiting! But I always want longer, harder scenes. (Yes, pun fully intended, too.) I want to be able to take more, and more, and more from him.

Anyway, today we started in bed, as we woke up. He reminded me that the other day when we played, I couldn’t find my navy blue blazer, which is very slovenly of me. Today, I was going to get a reminder to take better care of my things. I was ordered into my blue spandex punishment shorts. And then bent over the mean nasty punishment chair (which is this sturdy black chair which folds over to become a step-ladder, which I get bent over. Did I mention it’s mean and nasty?) Anyway, over it I went, and I had my first 6 from the cane. But they didn’t count, which is all my fault.

I’ve found that if we play “cold” (with no warm-up spanking or whatever) that my reactions to the cane are very … over dramatic. As a caning goes on, I get used to the sensations (as much as one can!) and I become better able to take my strokes without crying out too much or breaking position. So, the other day, masochistic fool that I am, I suggested to my Master that we just “ignore” the reactions during the first 6 — because my reactions to the next batch will more accurately reveal my real limits for that scene.

It’s important for me to be scrupulously honest about what I can take, because my Master is so understanding of my imperfect health and gives me such credit. So if I’ve been noisier than I think I should have been, I feel upset with myself, because I know my Master is reading the cues I give him, and I want him to be able to read me “right” — not get thrown off by an inaccurate display on my end of things. I want and need him to give me all I can take — the thought of him being too lenient on me is more painful than any C.P. I don’t want to miss a stroke of the cane, a slap of hand or slipper or tawse, that I could have taken for him. So I try so hard, with my breathing and my movements, to let him know just what I am going through, so that he can judge what’s best for me.

Anyway, we got through the ignorable first 6. But then he had me get on my hands and knees on the new sofa. A shudder went through me because I hate that position. I hate how my breasts hang without a bra, for one. And I can’t take the strokes so well when my flesh is pulled taut. When I lay on my tummy with a pillow under my hips, I can often take a good long caning, and it gets me to such a place as masochists only dream of. But when I’m on my hands and knees (or, worse, touching my toes, or bent over that vile punishment chair) it’s just work and more work. Work to stay in position. Work to make it through even half the cane strokes than I could do on my tummy (and what’s humiliating to me is not being able to take as many as I did last time, no matter what good reason there may be for it!) And all that stuff, all those issues, keep me from getting to the happy-masochist place. Which is perfectly valid for a punishment. of course, and for a disciplinary session, too. But it does kinda suck, to be very mature about it.

But today, with the vim and vigor of being fresh to the day, I found myself getting to the happy-masochist place, despite how hard that position was. I was able to take the strokes with greater acceptance and process the pain better. It may also have been that we just played on Saturday, and my body had not forgotten the taste of the cane — or maybe the new “first 6 tasting” — whatever, it made me very happy. It didn’t make things hurt less! He was really getting into it — left a weal on the backs of my thighs that stung for simply hours and hours. It hurt so much that I lost count, which seldom happens, because I hold on to the “countdown” like it’s a lifeline! By the end, I was crying out and writhing around, post-stroke, completely shamelessly. Oh, how I love getting to that place!

And I’m pretty sure he likes getting me there, because we retired to the bedroom right away. Sex is just so much better after a caning. Oh, it’s good after a spanking or what-have-you, but my Master had used the special cane, the one he and I like best, and to which we have a real emotional connection. (Oh — I don’t know what I will do when that cane eventually breaks! It will break my heart!) Anyway, the sex was glorious. And the wonderful afterglow was the best way to start our soon to be stressful and complicated day that was in the offing. I tackled my tasks with a light and happy heart — and hot and bothered bottom (which is the best reminder of why not to let the stress get to me, all day long.)

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