#851) It Hurts Me to Write

It hurts me to write stories with harsh punishments administered to the submissive. It doesn’t matter if she deserves it. (And, no, I’m not referring to the residual sting left behind in my behind as I spank myself to stay in that cruel mood, and adequately describe the sensations.) Even though I strongly feel that my stories write themselves, and I just guide the direction a little left here, a little more to the right thereafter. It still takes a lot of time and effort on my part, and takes a lot out of me. Out of my soul.
So, when I’m finished with the story, I draw a hot bath. I fill my mind with pleasant thoughts, of my lover’s funishment spanking of my ass, as the tub fills.
Speak of the devil, he comes into the bathroom, and shows that he knows me well after just one look at my face.
“Are you bathing away a bad story?”
“Yes…”
“May I help?”
“Would you? That would be nice!”
He shampoos my hair scrubbing my scalp, and gently washes my face with a washcloth like I’m an infant, then washes my grown-up body, soaping and massaging and rinsing. I feel purified, at peace.
“Stand up.”
I obey.
He parts my cheeks. He puts his mouth on my dewy rosebud. He tongues me there.
“Oh, Robert…!”
“Good?”
“Very!”
“Good,” and he dives back in, goes down deep. I feel like I’m the one drowning. My knees want to buckle.
My lover releases his hold on my cheeks, reaches around to part my pussy, finger me there. He proves that he’s watched me, studied my movements, memorized my idiosyncrasies. It’s like I’m touching myself without having to touch myself because he is expertly doing so.
“OH, Robert!”
He laughs and I feel it echoing in my core. My mind registers that there is a different feel to his touch in my sex. He’s withdrawn his right hand, uses that dominant hand to dominate my submissive essence. His right hand caresses my right buttock, right by his head, still buried deep up my butt crack.
Smack, he spanks me, smack, Smack, SMACK, SMACK!
“OH, ROBERT!”
It isn’t punishment. It is healing. It is just what I needed. More spanks land, just on that one cheek, right in the same spot, until it glows and radiates and makes me feel like the warmth is swelling, overtaking my whole being, as his tongue twirls and his fingers diddle and I climax, only able to repeat, “Oh, Robert…” over and over and over.
He’s holding me up. I would crumble into dust and powder the bathwater like Kool-Aid if he didn’t.
“Better?” he smiles.
Words fail me. I nod, vehemently. I kiss the mouth that just french kissed my rectum.
He’s healed me. I feel whole, wholly alive.

3 responses to “#851) It Hurts Me to Write”

  1. I love how well you illustrate the beauty of what we crave as bottoms. It really is all about healing and new beginnings for many of us. I wish you and Robert a lifetime of shared healing and new beginnings!

    Liked by 1 person

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