A Bit of Pain (M/F)
Posted: Wed Jun 18, 2025 6:16 pm
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A Bit of Pain
Saturday, June 20, 2020
"Joyce, is everything OK?" my husband Ryan asked me one beautiful Florida afternoon.
Don't get me wrong. I love Florida, and I love the year-round heat. But I had grown to hate the place at this time of my life. My father had died here four summers back, and then my mother died 6 months later after she was hit by a wrong-way drunk driver. My best friends had moved out of the state, and worst of all I had just suffered my third miscarriage.
Like my best friend, I wanted children. I was the only child of my mother, and my half-siblings were both adults with kids when I was born. I didn't want my own kids to go through the same suffering of having no real siblings. Now, my best friends had children already, and here I was seemingly unable to have any and uncertain why I was even in Ph.D. school when my first love was maternity and work was second. To make things lonelier, I had married an only child who most of the time provided enough comfort to get me through the worst. My in-laws were horrid.
"Maybe you'd have children if you hadn't married her," they said.
"Should have thought before marrying a r-pe victim," trivialized me.
"Perhaps if she hadn't been a wh-re this wouldn't happen," sounded like I deserved to be hurt.
"I guess having such a decrepit father made her defective," made it personal.
That last insult, in a string from Ryan's parents over the last 6 months, set me off in full Sicilian temper. I told him that I was never visiting his parents again, but that he was welcome to do so. I also let off a hurtful comment of my own before begging him to never even call them unless I wasn't around. I never did talk to his parents ever again, much to my eternal joy. I cannot help I was born to a 51 year old who'd remarried and his 36 year old wife.
"Ryan fell far from the tree. He isn't a f-cking drunken Irish narcissistic b-stard like you two! If you wanted grandchildren so badly, you should have thought before swallowing the entire packet of abortifacients," I really sawed deep into their bones with that one before I walked out of there.
I wasn't much better than his parents anymore after spilling that out. I was sick of being blamed for being brutally bound and gagged before my ex-boyfriend attacked me for 45 minutes straight. College classmates blamed me; the hockey coaches blamed me; the athletics department blamed me; then my in-laws blamed me too. I suppose it was my fault, too, that he strangled me because I wouldn't swallow his c-m. Such a delightful experience. I guess I was supposed to like it.
I went out onto the balcony without replying to Ryan and watched as the storm clouds formed to the west. I chose this apartment because it had the front "porch" on the east and a balcony on the west. I love watching storms form, and this gave me the opportunity to gaze in both directions as the clouds grew. It was my little escape from life, and, as a Roman Catholic, I frequently did so while praying chaplets that my friends recommended to me. Without those prayers, I wouldn't have survived this period of my life or the agony that eventually followed me.
Ryan came out and sat with me. He seemed to be a real man, let me tell you. He was what good husbands should be. Not only did he come out with me but he prayed with me when he saw that I was doing so. This wasn't the first time he had done this, and I had no shame that he was a year younger than me. How much I wish I knew better at the time—this was when we were happy.
"Honey," I said as the first rumbles of thunder arrived, "Let's go inside."
Simply put, I wanted to be with Ryan. Like with him. His junk inside me. We never went heavier than was necessary for us to get off during it. I'm a little odd; sometimes I felt great just from having him do his thing without ever having my own orgasm. You'd think we loved each other or something! Loved. Sigh. Back when life was good. When we were married.
People who know me know I'll do a nude TUG with vibrators and all that stuff; I was one of the CGC girls who also played with the bondage sorority and one of few CGC girls who even would do bondage modeling. Heck, when friends visited (or we visited them), we'd play couples strip poker. I'm a bit too fearless with those games. It was in good fun, though.
I wouldn't do bondage sex except for 100% without doubt consensual oral and that only after a friend talked me into it. The rest was a no go for me and just reminded me of being hurt by that monster; and let me tell you in no uncertain terms that that monster was the first and last person to invade my butt. I'm getting a lot off my chest here, and I apologize for that.
Bondage was for afterwards, after he had done his thing and after I had done mine, and after a fabulous session there would be more afterwards. Sometimes I'd keep my glasses on during sex, and I don't know why. It's as if I have vision loss or something of the kind. Whatever. I wanted to be tied up and put through some play. I mean the rough play and not just a game.
Ryan took out the rough brown rope just as the first drops of rain arrived and peals of lightning flashed across the sky; we sat, however, in darkness, the lights off, enjoying the outdoor scenery. There was the rope, there was the bondage rope, and there was the rough rope. The first was just store rope we used for TUGs; the second is obvious; the third was heavier, tougher stuff we used exclusively for private games that were more sexualized.
When Ryan crossed my forearms and bound my arms behind me in that way, I knew it was going to be a wild time because that usually meant he was going for something where I'd be struggling a lot. In these games, I always had to make sure that my vitals were good, even before sex. My diabetes, juvenile, easily went haywire, and I'd become a hot mess. The excitement of sexual situations sometimes made it get uneven faster than normal.
With time, Ryan had tied a beautiful breast harness, a waist rope, my thighs above my crotch, my legs above and below my knee caps, and my ankles. It was tough, had no give whatsoever, and felt incredible. More than that, because there was no crotch rope I knew Ryan planned to use the vibrator on me as well. This was a good time back when our marriage was happy.
When Ryan took my hair in his hand, I knew the gag was coming. If we'd planned a consensual game (as opposed to being nabbed by him or a friend for a PG-rated non-consensual game) and I planned to keep my clothes on, I'd put my hair back with a scrunchie or a bandana if I wanted to feel more like a Cool Girl; my dark ash blonde hair never came past the bottom of my shoulders, so it was always in the way because it just didn't have enough weight to keep it down.
"Mmmm!" I moaned sensuously as he filled my mouth with my hunter green ball gag.
He tightened the main strap and adjusted the chin strap. I was gagged and stuck with it! This felt so perfect, and I looked right into Ryan's eyes just to see if he was really paying attention. I wasn't a girl who normally looked at eyes like some; I went more by body language and words.
"EEEEEK!" Ryan put painful binder clips on my nipples.
Ryan pulled me up so that my legs were pulled toward my chest. He had attached a rope to one binder clip, and he ran the rope between my thighs (above the binding above my knee caps) and wrapped it around the rope at my ankles before running it between my thighs to the other clip. If I attempted to stretch out my legs, I yanked on my nipples. Perfect!
"OWWWWW!" I yelled as he forced me to test his devilish work. Sometimes I loved and hated this wicked invention. Now, Ryan scooped me up in his arms and carried me to our dining room with its slider that looked outwards toward the thunderstorm. We weren't here, however, for the table or the thunderstorm. We were here for the cold, cruel white tile floor that was in here. He put me down on the floor on my right side, and the cold chill of ceramic passed into my body. I felt his warm touch, not knowing that one day he'd become as cold towards me as the tile.
I yelped a little when he did that and wiggled my feet and hands in protest. Since we were here, he could shamelessly torture me with ice cubes, and he could also vibrate me. Some days he did both, and today was one of those days. He rolled me up onto my knees on the floor and my face on its side and put an ice cube right on top of my butt crack.
"Don't let it fall, or I will spank you!"
"UGH!" I wasn't sure if that or the yanking on my nipples was worse.
I was quite roughly bound and gagged with nipple clamps torturing me, and now I was forced into a downward-facing dog-like position with an ice cube on my butt. These ice cube games, frankly, are incredible and test every part of me to the fullest. I have to keep my muscles firm to stabilize myself; I have to endure the pain of the clamps; and I can't protest too much because that also is worthy of a whack on my butt.
Some days, Ryan finds the punishment for failure more arousing than the torture itself; same is true of me. Today, he tickled me in the rib cage to force a yelp, a yell, a yank, and a yowl.
"OH!" I yelped as he tickled me.
"OW!" I yelled as I yanked on the clamps on my nipples when I instinctively jerked in response.
"NO!" I yowled as the ice cube fell.
As soon as that ice cube slid off, I knew trouble was coming. The icy cool solid water slid down my butt crack and onto my lower legs. I squirmed a little and knew what was coming.
"Tsk tsk tsk, my Little Nutbrown Hare!" he said and then in came his hand.
SMACK!
"EEEE!" I squealed at the spank that made me instinctively jerk my legs and pull my nipples, "ACK!"
With each spank, I jerked and pulled on those nipples. He only spanked me 5 times, thankfully, because more would have triggered a breast orgasm from the yanks. I didn't yet deserve a reward that great although I sure wanted it. I needed better behavior for that! It's all fun and games. It was so sweet and soft. I never imagined then that someday that Little Nutbrown Hare—a name I was given by my father because of the children's storybook character—would be alone without a friend who had a shoulder upon which she could cry because she'd be living in Iowa.
Five was enough though for me to feel like I had just had a full experience. For further torture, I was put on my left side so the cold tile could chill that part of me. I possibly swore into my gag. The chilliness was both a source of invigoration and pain.
A flash of lightning filled the apartment, and after 5 seconds a loud rumble of thunder shook it and us. Despite the storms of life, here we were. That passing thunder was like the passing of the pain of the babies we'd lost. This, too, shall pass, and hopefully we would be better people from it. I'd lost six babies in all before… He betrayed me in one of the only methods which the Catholic Church considers valid grounds for an annulment. I still remember it like yesterday.
I knew trouble was coming when Ryan took out a brown bandana and used it to blindfold me. Whatever was next would have to be a surprise. I love surprises, but what was about to happen was a cruelty new to our bondage games. I didn't love the surprise of finding a naked woman in my bedroom closet, that was for sure. That day ended our marriage, and the next day I went out to get STD testing done to make sure that I'd not been polluted by his emotional abuse.
The next ice cube was placed upon my right arm. I let out a sensual groan when he put it there. I was becoming excited by these things, now, because I was anticipating the rewards. During a game like this, I often am looking forward and not focusing on the present; such makes enduring the ice cubes easier, but it makes me not notice the little details. Ryan took perfect advantage of this. How well he knew me, and the little sh-t eventually thought he could pull the wool over my eyes any time he desired to do so. He believed the horrid things his parents had said about me.
"Is she broken or something? How many miscarriages?" they'd ask in a condescending tone.
"She's used goods. Will the hockey star take her back?" trivialized the r-ping I'd suffered.
"Have you tried artificial insemination? Maybe a surrogate?" totally dehumanized my maternal yearnings by making a commodity out of motherhood, filling me with spiritual indignation.
"Her father was in his 50s. Maybe he was too old and gave her genetic defects," they spat on the grave of the man who loved me, protected me, and beladied me as his "Little Nutbrown Hare."
I waited and waited for what felt like minutes. During this time, I focused my energy on deeply breathing and flexing my wrists and ankles. I felt the coolness slowly fading, but the wetness never came. Indeed, after some time, I let out a groan and just dumped it on purpose and heard the clang of my stainless steel drink cube! A deceiver of the best kind became one of the worst.
"HEATER!" I accused my husband of bending the rules. He would learn how to cheat very well.
"Bad Joyce! You dropped it, psh, and now you get what was promised," he responded.
SMACK!, left cheek. I loved these playful spankings not expecting emotional spankings.
"EEEE!" I squealed, jerked my legs, and yelled, "OWW!"
SMACK!, right cheek. I savored the games, not knowing I'd wish I could spit them out.
"EEEEEE EEE EEEEEE OWWWWWW!"
SMACK!, alternating. Just like he alternated between me and his side chick(s).
"OHHHHH Uhhhhhhhhhh!"
SMACK!, back. But he never had my back, and he took advantage of me.
"OWW! Noooooooo"
SMACK!, and. Our bondage games had simply become private p0rn for his sick mind.
"YAN! OHP IH!" I yelled again knowing this would be my big punishment.
SMACK!, forth. Which just goes to show that even true love can dissolve.
"MMM MMm hmmmmmmmm!" I grew softer and waved my arms in surrender.
Ryan undid the cruel ball tie and let me have the relief on my nipples. The blindfold didn't stop me from knowing that the lightning flash coincided with the thunder when the floor was shaken; Ryan's "WOW!" made that much obvious. I had done well enough that my performance was rewarded with a sensual kiss on the right face cheek.
Then came the wand. He pushed it gently against my vagina and turned it on to a lower setting, and the machine began purring against my body. I grunted a little in some form of resistance—a little—but I was truly loving this and entering my subspace. I experimented with subspace with a man I now know I couldn't trust at my strongest let alone at my most vulnerable, when I was in tight bondage with the rough brown ropes and gagged. Talk about betrayal.
During periods of intense bondage, the combination of hormones eventually made me reach this borderline unconscious state where I'd be almost out of it. It was an amazing place where I felt powerless yet safe; I felt nothing anymore except the flow of the sexual hormones from kisses, breast squeezes, and vaginal stimulation. It was useless talking to me because nothing coherent would come out anyway, and I lost all awareness of my surroundings. What is trust?
I stopped struggling in this state and gave little acknowledgement of Ryan's actions except little waves of my hands and soft moans. Imagine that feeling of being completely unconscious yet having the strange sensation of a doctor doing work on your body, whether dental or otherwise; there's absolutely no pain, but you feel it and have no need to respond. It was an amazing state. I had no idea that I'd one day be so broken I'd lose 60 pounds in 4 months.
"Mmmmmm!" I purred almost like the vibrator at moments, but it wasn't strong enough to turn me on all the way. I needed more stimulation than this and was at my most peaceful
The buzzing continued with Ryan squeezing my hardening breasts, and I let out an erotic groan that accomplished nothing except to spill a little drool on my face. I didn't care what he did at this point as long as it wasn't harmful or a violation of limits. Indeed, he upped the vibrator to a more medium setting, and I felt the difference. He never violated my physical limits.
That wasn't what did it, though, even as I quietly groaned and erotically squirmed in this joyful, semi-catatonic state. It wasn't him manhandling my breasts either. It was when he quietly said "I love you, Joyce," and kissed me passionately on the cheek that I lost it. Yes, once upon a time, it was possible for me to react in this way. Now the thought of his very existence makes me sick to my stomach, wondering how many more women he'll betray. I have no trace of our relationship anywhere to be found; I deleted, discarded, or sold everything ever associated with that monster.
"MMMM! Augggggghhhhh!" I softly spoke in response to my orgasm.
With that, I made a strong arch. I was orgasming and in a big way in my euphoria. We played on the tile so that I could get as wet as we wished, and I was glad we had done so because that might still to this day be my biggest orgasm ever. A sudden boom of thunder shook me a bit, but the exit from my subspace didn't come quite yet. This was but a physical storm in my life.
Ryan attached the vibrator to me with a little rope, sat me up, and unbuckled the gag. In a game of horniness, it is always difficult to be the top when you just want to go. I mumbled something he neither understood nor I remember, but I opened my mouth to please him. How stupid was I that I once enjoyed such something so intimate, something that had been used to violate me?
I mindlessly, in a way, but deliberately, in another, sucked on him while the vibrator, which he had upped to a high setting, whirred against me. I felt sudden chills going through me when he squeezed my breasts in his strong but gentle hands. So disoriented was I that I didn't notice the taste of his sperm, but I sure remember how good the orgasm that followed felt. How could the most beautiful moments have come when I was alone with someone so hideous on the inside?
"Ohhhhhh! Uhhh uhhhh uhhhhhh!" I wailed.
Ryan began untying me... every single rope... until I was free and sitting on the living room sofa. I was still blindfolded and slowly sipping Gatorade through a straw when offered. In between sips, Ryan was massaging my muscles and slowly working me back down to earth. It was a part of our post-session routine that the blindfold came off only when I was ready.
In the background, Mozart's Jupiter Symphony, my all-time favorite, quietly played. I knew it so well that the highs-and-lows and textures were all second nature to me, which made it a perfect selection for after bondage. Occasionally, the music and massages and drinks were interspersed with light kisses and rumbles of fading thunder. It was at least 30 minutes before I spoke. How I listened to Mozart so many, many times during those months after our marriage ended.
"Oh, honey, that was so good. You are a blessing," I spoke softly, "I think I am ready."
I stood up and pulled the blindfold above my eyes. Putting my arms around his neck, I gave him a kiss on the cheek. He instinctively pulled the blindfold back down, and I giggled as I fell onto the sofa with him inside me and kissing my neck. Post-bondage sex sometimes felt better than pre-bondage sex, especially when it was more about us laughing and talking and confessing how much we loved each other. What is love? I know what real love is because our love was real at one time, but even real love can wither up and die on the vine like ours did.
All the pain was worth it to reach subspace, and subspace was worth it to have moments like these afterwards. When we were done, I was amazed so much could happen in just an hour. I removed the blindfold for real this time, and looked out the window behind me to see a perfect rainbow. That rainbow was there at just the right time just like Ryan arrived in my life at just the right time. Unfortunately, I took for love what should never have been more than friendship. At the time we met, I was still recovering from my egregious violation at the hands of my assailant and blinded to the realities of matters. Some of my friends saw it, and I didn't believe them.
Oh, how many hours I spent in church, adoring the Eucharist, while emotionally recovering from my wasted life. I'm now pushing 30 and dating someone I hope will be true to me, but this time I plan to listen to all of my friends—not just ones who are positive or say what I wish to be true. I hope my story is a warning call to all—men, too. Even men can be victimized like I was.
Sigh
A Bit of Pain
Saturday, June 20, 2020
"Joyce, is everything OK?" my husband Ryan asked me one beautiful Florida afternoon.
Don't get me wrong. I love Florida, and I love the year-round heat. But I had grown to hate the place at this time of my life. My father had died here four summers back, and then my mother died 6 months later after she was hit by a wrong-way drunk driver. My best friends had moved out of the state, and worst of all I had just suffered my third miscarriage.
Like my best friend, I wanted children. I was the only child of my mother, and my half-siblings were both adults with kids when I was born. I didn't want my own kids to go through the same suffering of having no real siblings. Now, my best friends had children already, and here I was seemingly unable to have any and uncertain why I was even in Ph.D. school when my first love was maternity and work was second. To make things lonelier, I had married an only child who most of the time provided enough comfort to get me through the worst. My in-laws were horrid.
"Maybe you'd have children if you hadn't married her," they said.
"Should have thought before marrying a r-pe victim," trivialized me.
"Perhaps if she hadn't been a wh-re this wouldn't happen," sounded like I deserved to be hurt.
"I guess having such a decrepit father made her defective," made it personal.
That last insult, in a string from Ryan's parents over the last 6 months, set me off in full Sicilian temper. I told him that I was never visiting his parents again, but that he was welcome to do so. I also let off a hurtful comment of my own before begging him to never even call them unless I wasn't around. I never did talk to his parents ever again, much to my eternal joy. I cannot help I was born to a 51 year old who'd remarried and his 36 year old wife.
"Ryan fell far from the tree. He isn't a f-cking drunken Irish narcissistic b-stard like you two! If you wanted grandchildren so badly, you should have thought before swallowing the entire packet of abortifacients," I really sawed deep into their bones with that one before I walked out of there.
I wasn't much better than his parents anymore after spilling that out. I was sick of being blamed for being brutally bound and gagged before my ex-boyfriend attacked me for 45 minutes straight. College classmates blamed me; the hockey coaches blamed me; the athletics department blamed me; then my in-laws blamed me too. I suppose it was my fault, too, that he strangled me because I wouldn't swallow his c-m. Such a delightful experience. I guess I was supposed to like it.
I went out onto the balcony without replying to Ryan and watched as the storm clouds formed to the west. I chose this apartment because it had the front "porch" on the east and a balcony on the west. I love watching storms form, and this gave me the opportunity to gaze in both directions as the clouds grew. It was my little escape from life, and, as a Roman Catholic, I frequently did so while praying chaplets that my friends recommended to me. Without those prayers, I wouldn't have survived this period of my life or the agony that eventually followed me.
Ryan came out and sat with me. He seemed to be a real man, let me tell you. He was what good husbands should be. Not only did he come out with me but he prayed with me when he saw that I was doing so. This wasn't the first time he had done this, and I had no shame that he was a year younger than me. How much I wish I knew better at the time—this was when we were happy.
"Honey," I said as the first rumbles of thunder arrived, "Let's go inside."
Simply put, I wanted to be with Ryan. Like with him. His junk inside me. We never went heavier than was necessary for us to get off during it. I'm a little odd; sometimes I felt great just from having him do his thing without ever having my own orgasm. You'd think we loved each other or something! Loved. Sigh. Back when life was good. When we were married.
People who know me know I'll do a nude TUG with vibrators and all that stuff; I was one of the CGC girls who also played with the bondage sorority and one of few CGC girls who even would do bondage modeling. Heck, when friends visited (or we visited them), we'd play couples strip poker. I'm a bit too fearless with those games. It was in good fun, though.
I wouldn't do bondage sex except for 100% without doubt consensual oral and that only after a friend talked me into it. The rest was a no go for me and just reminded me of being hurt by that monster; and let me tell you in no uncertain terms that that monster was the first and last person to invade my butt. I'm getting a lot off my chest here, and I apologize for that.
Bondage was for afterwards, after he had done his thing and after I had done mine, and after a fabulous session there would be more afterwards. Sometimes I'd keep my glasses on during sex, and I don't know why. It's as if I have vision loss or something of the kind. Whatever. I wanted to be tied up and put through some play. I mean the rough play and not just a game.
Ryan took out the rough brown rope just as the first drops of rain arrived and peals of lightning flashed across the sky; we sat, however, in darkness, the lights off, enjoying the outdoor scenery. There was the rope, there was the bondage rope, and there was the rough rope. The first was just store rope we used for TUGs; the second is obvious; the third was heavier, tougher stuff we used exclusively for private games that were more sexualized.
When Ryan crossed my forearms and bound my arms behind me in that way, I knew it was going to be a wild time because that usually meant he was going for something where I'd be struggling a lot. In these games, I always had to make sure that my vitals were good, even before sex. My diabetes, juvenile, easily went haywire, and I'd become a hot mess. The excitement of sexual situations sometimes made it get uneven faster than normal.
With time, Ryan had tied a beautiful breast harness, a waist rope, my thighs above my crotch, my legs above and below my knee caps, and my ankles. It was tough, had no give whatsoever, and felt incredible. More than that, because there was no crotch rope I knew Ryan planned to use the vibrator on me as well. This was a good time back when our marriage was happy.
When Ryan took my hair in his hand, I knew the gag was coming. If we'd planned a consensual game (as opposed to being nabbed by him or a friend for a PG-rated non-consensual game) and I planned to keep my clothes on, I'd put my hair back with a scrunchie or a bandana if I wanted to feel more like a Cool Girl; my dark ash blonde hair never came past the bottom of my shoulders, so it was always in the way because it just didn't have enough weight to keep it down.
"Mmmm!" I moaned sensuously as he filled my mouth with my hunter green ball gag.
He tightened the main strap and adjusted the chin strap. I was gagged and stuck with it! This felt so perfect, and I looked right into Ryan's eyes just to see if he was really paying attention. I wasn't a girl who normally looked at eyes like some; I went more by body language and words.
"EEEEEK!" Ryan put painful binder clips on my nipples.
Ryan pulled me up so that my legs were pulled toward my chest. He had attached a rope to one binder clip, and he ran the rope between my thighs (above the binding above my knee caps) and wrapped it around the rope at my ankles before running it between my thighs to the other clip. If I attempted to stretch out my legs, I yanked on my nipples. Perfect!
"OWWWWW!" I yelled as he forced me to test his devilish work. Sometimes I loved and hated this wicked invention. Now, Ryan scooped me up in his arms and carried me to our dining room with its slider that looked outwards toward the thunderstorm. We weren't here, however, for the table or the thunderstorm. We were here for the cold, cruel white tile floor that was in here. He put me down on the floor on my right side, and the cold chill of ceramic passed into my body. I felt his warm touch, not knowing that one day he'd become as cold towards me as the tile.
I yelped a little when he did that and wiggled my feet and hands in protest. Since we were here, he could shamelessly torture me with ice cubes, and he could also vibrate me. Some days he did both, and today was one of those days. He rolled me up onto my knees on the floor and my face on its side and put an ice cube right on top of my butt crack.
"Don't let it fall, or I will spank you!"
"UGH!" I wasn't sure if that or the yanking on my nipples was worse.
I was quite roughly bound and gagged with nipple clamps torturing me, and now I was forced into a downward-facing dog-like position with an ice cube on my butt. These ice cube games, frankly, are incredible and test every part of me to the fullest. I have to keep my muscles firm to stabilize myself; I have to endure the pain of the clamps; and I can't protest too much because that also is worthy of a whack on my butt.
Some days, Ryan finds the punishment for failure more arousing than the torture itself; same is true of me. Today, he tickled me in the rib cage to force a yelp, a yell, a yank, and a yowl.
"OH!" I yelped as he tickled me.
"OW!" I yelled as I yanked on the clamps on my nipples when I instinctively jerked in response.
"NO!" I yowled as the ice cube fell.
As soon as that ice cube slid off, I knew trouble was coming. The icy cool solid water slid down my butt crack and onto my lower legs. I squirmed a little and knew what was coming.
"Tsk tsk tsk, my Little Nutbrown Hare!" he said and then in came his hand.
SMACK!
"EEEE!" I squealed at the spank that made me instinctively jerk my legs and pull my nipples, "ACK!"
With each spank, I jerked and pulled on those nipples. He only spanked me 5 times, thankfully, because more would have triggered a breast orgasm from the yanks. I didn't yet deserve a reward that great although I sure wanted it. I needed better behavior for that! It's all fun and games. It was so sweet and soft. I never imagined then that someday that Little Nutbrown Hare—a name I was given by my father because of the children's storybook character—would be alone without a friend who had a shoulder upon which she could cry because she'd be living in Iowa.
Five was enough though for me to feel like I had just had a full experience. For further torture, I was put on my left side so the cold tile could chill that part of me. I possibly swore into my gag. The chilliness was both a source of invigoration and pain.
A flash of lightning filled the apartment, and after 5 seconds a loud rumble of thunder shook it and us. Despite the storms of life, here we were. That passing thunder was like the passing of the pain of the babies we'd lost. This, too, shall pass, and hopefully we would be better people from it. I'd lost six babies in all before… He betrayed me in one of the only methods which the Catholic Church considers valid grounds for an annulment. I still remember it like yesterday.
I knew trouble was coming when Ryan took out a brown bandana and used it to blindfold me. Whatever was next would have to be a surprise. I love surprises, but what was about to happen was a cruelty new to our bondage games. I didn't love the surprise of finding a naked woman in my bedroom closet, that was for sure. That day ended our marriage, and the next day I went out to get STD testing done to make sure that I'd not been polluted by his emotional abuse.
The next ice cube was placed upon my right arm. I let out a sensual groan when he put it there. I was becoming excited by these things, now, because I was anticipating the rewards. During a game like this, I often am looking forward and not focusing on the present; such makes enduring the ice cubes easier, but it makes me not notice the little details. Ryan took perfect advantage of this. How well he knew me, and the little sh-t eventually thought he could pull the wool over my eyes any time he desired to do so. He believed the horrid things his parents had said about me.
"Is she broken or something? How many miscarriages?" they'd ask in a condescending tone.
"She's used goods. Will the hockey star take her back?" trivialized the r-ping I'd suffered.
"Have you tried artificial insemination? Maybe a surrogate?" totally dehumanized my maternal yearnings by making a commodity out of motherhood, filling me with spiritual indignation.
"Her father was in his 50s. Maybe he was too old and gave her genetic defects," they spat on the grave of the man who loved me, protected me, and beladied me as his "Little Nutbrown Hare."
I waited and waited for what felt like minutes. During this time, I focused my energy on deeply breathing and flexing my wrists and ankles. I felt the coolness slowly fading, but the wetness never came. Indeed, after some time, I let out a groan and just dumped it on purpose and heard the clang of my stainless steel drink cube! A deceiver of the best kind became one of the worst.
"HEATER!" I accused my husband of bending the rules. He would learn how to cheat very well.
"Bad Joyce! You dropped it, psh, and now you get what was promised," he responded.
SMACK!, left cheek. I loved these playful spankings not expecting emotional spankings.
"EEEE!" I squealed, jerked my legs, and yelled, "OWW!"
SMACK!, right cheek. I savored the games, not knowing I'd wish I could spit them out.
"EEEEEE EEE EEEEEE OWWWWWW!"
SMACK!, alternating. Just like he alternated between me and his side chick(s).
"OHHHHH Uhhhhhhhhhh!"
SMACK!, back. But he never had my back, and he took advantage of me.
"OWW! Noooooooo"
SMACK!, and. Our bondage games had simply become private p0rn for his sick mind.
"YAN! OHP IH!" I yelled again knowing this would be my big punishment.
SMACK!, forth. Which just goes to show that even true love can dissolve.
"MMM MMm hmmmmmmmm!" I grew softer and waved my arms in surrender.
Ryan undid the cruel ball tie and let me have the relief on my nipples. The blindfold didn't stop me from knowing that the lightning flash coincided with the thunder when the floor was shaken; Ryan's "WOW!" made that much obvious. I had done well enough that my performance was rewarded with a sensual kiss on the right face cheek.
Then came the wand. He pushed it gently against my vagina and turned it on to a lower setting, and the machine began purring against my body. I grunted a little in some form of resistance—a little—but I was truly loving this and entering my subspace. I experimented with subspace with a man I now know I couldn't trust at my strongest let alone at my most vulnerable, when I was in tight bondage with the rough brown ropes and gagged. Talk about betrayal.
During periods of intense bondage, the combination of hormones eventually made me reach this borderline unconscious state where I'd be almost out of it. It was an amazing place where I felt powerless yet safe; I felt nothing anymore except the flow of the sexual hormones from kisses, breast squeezes, and vaginal stimulation. It was useless talking to me because nothing coherent would come out anyway, and I lost all awareness of my surroundings. What is trust?
I stopped struggling in this state and gave little acknowledgement of Ryan's actions except little waves of my hands and soft moans. Imagine that feeling of being completely unconscious yet having the strange sensation of a doctor doing work on your body, whether dental or otherwise; there's absolutely no pain, but you feel it and have no need to respond. It was an amazing state. I had no idea that I'd one day be so broken I'd lose 60 pounds in 4 months.
"Mmmmmm!" I purred almost like the vibrator at moments, but it wasn't strong enough to turn me on all the way. I needed more stimulation than this and was at my most peaceful
The buzzing continued with Ryan squeezing my hardening breasts, and I let out an erotic groan that accomplished nothing except to spill a little drool on my face. I didn't care what he did at this point as long as it wasn't harmful or a violation of limits. Indeed, he upped the vibrator to a more medium setting, and I felt the difference. He never violated my physical limits.
That wasn't what did it, though, even as I quietly groaned and erotically squirmed in this joyful, semi-catatonic state. It wasn't him manhandling my breasts either. It was when he quietly said "I love you, Joyce," and kissed me passionately on the cheek that I lost it. Yes, once upon a time, it was possible for me to react in this way. Now the thought of his very existence makes me sick to my stomach, wondering how many more women he'll betray. I have no trace of our relationship anywhere to be found; I deleted, discarded, or sold everything ever associated with that monster.
"MMMM! Augggggghhhhh!" I softly spoke in response to my orgasm.
With that, I made a strong arch. I was orgasming and in a big way in my euphoria. We played on the tile so that I could get as wet as we wished, and I was glad we had done so because that might still to this day be my biggest orgasm ever. A sudden boom of thunder shook me a bit, but the exit from my subspace didn't come quite yet. This was but a physical storm in my life.
Ryan attached the vibrator to me with a little rope, sat me up, and unbuckled the gag. In a game of horniness, it is always difficult to be the top when you just want to go. I mumbled something he neither understood nor I remember, but I opened my mouth to please him. How stupid was I that I once enjoyed such something so intimate, something that had been used to violate me?
I mindlessly, in a way, but deliberately, in another, sucked on him while the vibrator, which he had upped to a high setting, whirred against me. I felt sudden chills going through me when he squeezed my breasts in his strong but gentle hands. So disoriented was I that I didn't notice the taste of his sperm, but I sure remember how good the orgasm that followed felt. How could the most beautiful moments have come when I was alone with someone so hideous on the inside?
"Ohhhhhh! Uhhh uhhhh uhhhhhh!" I wailed.
Ryan began untying me... every single rope... until I was free and sitting on the living room sofa. I was still blindfolded and slowly sipping Gatorade through a straw when offered. In between sips, Ryan was massaging my muscles and slowly working me back down to earth. It was a part of our post-session routine that the blindfold came off only when I was ready.
In the background, Mozart's Jupiter Symphony, my all-time favorite, quietly played. I knew it so well that the highs-and-lows and textures were all second nature to me, which made it a perfect selection for after bondage. Occasionally, the music and massages and drinks were interspersed with light kisses and rumbles of fading thunder. It was at least 30 minutes before I spoke. How I listened to Mozart so many, many times during those months after our marriage ended.
"Oh, honey, that was so good. You are a blessing," I spoke softly, "I think I am ready."
I stood up and pulled the blindfold above my eyes. Putting my arms around his neck, I gave him a kiss on the cheek. He instinctively pulled the blindfold back down, and I giggled as I fell onto the sofa with him inside me and kissing my neck. Post-bondage sex sometimes felt better than pre-bondage sex, especially when it was more about us laughing and talking and confessing how much we loved each other. What is love? I know what real love is because our love was real at one time, but even real love can wither up and die on the vine like ours did.
All the pain was worth it to reach subspace, and subspace was worth it to have moments like these afterwards. When we were done, I was amazed so much could happen in just an hour. I removed the blindfold for real this time, and looked out the window behind me to see a perfect rainbow. That rainbow was there at just the right time just like Ryan arrived in my life at just the right time. Unfortunately, I took for love what should never have been more than friendship. At the time we met, I was still recovering from my egregious violation at the hands of my assailant and blinded to the realities of matters. Some of my friends saw it, and I didn't believe them.
Oh, how many hours I spent in church, adoring the Eucharist, while emotionally recovering from my wasted life. I'm now pushing 30 and dating someone I hope will be true to me, but this time I plan to listen to all of my friends—not just ones who are positive or say what I wish to be true. I hope my story is a warning call to all—men, too. Even men can be victimized like I was.
Sigh
