stupid rules girl, part 2

A continuation of an earlier story. Part one is here.

The astute reader would note my mistake. The astute reader would think to him or herself that Donny had given me two very clear directives.

“The first,” he had said, “is that you can’t speak except to ask permission to come,” and he’d followed it with this one: “The second rule is that you can’t stop touching yourself.”

The astute reader would note that I had followed the second directive to the letter. I did not take my finger off my clit except to make it juicy with my own saliva or pussy wet. I touched myself with a single-minded fortitude, a terrieresque purpose, a will as inexorable as any conquering army in the night.

However, the less astute reader might have been swept up and off with all the purpling prose that eddies and swirls around my escalating arousal, my erotic acrobatic turns of phrase, those linguistic repetitions and gaps and that fracturing syntax intended to express the inexpressible. The less astute reader might have suffered his or her own pupil-dilationary swelling ride. The less astute reader might have just read for the orgasm. He or she may have come for the coming and lost the rest.

See, the thing is that I knew exactly when I deviated from the directions. I knew when I was doing it and I knew why and I knew that I might very well incur the hand of Donny in doing so and yet I did it, did it anyway, did it with foreknowledge and with the hope that in the heat of the moment he would forget his own rules, overlook my lapse, let it fall and dissipate like a freak snow in June.

Keep fucking me, I moaned. Those three words are not in any known language “may I come?” They can’t be construed in any context as a request. They are solidly and unquestionably a command, an imperative. I imperated, which by all rules of the game—rules I had myself agreed to—was wrong.

Donny let me come. He did indeed fuck me, he did indeed respond to my command and thrust his hips upward to my open and frenzied cunny, he did indeed continue to fuck me until my yowling banshee spasms subsided, he did indeed hold me after in this long and ropy-strong arms.

And then he told me to get on all fours and to stay that way. Facing the head of the bed toward the wall, I could see nothing. I heard rustling behind me, and there on my fours I knew that he hadn’t forgotten, hadn’t overlooked, hadn’t dissipated like snow or any other freaksome precipitation. I knew that there was punishment in order.

Donny returned to the bed and stood by its side in front of my mouth. “Open your mouth,” he said, and I did.

He pushed the head of his cock not unforcefully into my mouth. Wrapping one of his hands in my hair, he cranked my head back and up so that our eyes met even as his cock continued to slowly fuck my mouth. With my head pulled so far back I found it more difficult to deep-throat him. I gagged slightly and when he pulled out of my mouth long pearly strands of my spit connected us like wet spider webs.

“You didn’t follow my directions,” Donny said. “I told you that except for asking permission to come, you couldn’t speak. You told me to fuck you harder. Now,” he said and shifted his body to fuck my throat more fully, “you will suck my cock until I come and as you do, I’m going to flog you. With each stroke, it will get harder and hurt you more, so you’d do best to make me come quickly.”

He released my head down and shifted his weight. I could hear it before I felt it: the soft thudding rain of the flogger’s leather tips on my ass. I continued to suck his cock, his hips moving with their own rhythm, guiding his cock into my mouth at his pace. I could do little but try to make it interesting—swirl my tongue surprisingly around his cock’s tip when he pulled out, bite gently behind its head for a brief moment when it entered, swallow around its heavy presence in the back of my throat when it had fully penetrated my mouth and throat.

Every passing moment the flogger rained down harder. Soon it had progressed from the gentle heavy drops of the beginning of an August afternoon thundercloud to the sweet stinging pitter-patter of an April shower and then to the driving discomfort of a cold February storm.

As Donny’s strokes became harder, fiercer and more punishing, his excitement grew. His cock was now piston-fucking my mouth, this hard and inexhaustible machine fucking my mouth with internal combustion power. His concentration on his cock, Donny’s aim with the flogger became less and less precise. He hit my ass and my thighs, but also the tender flesh of my inner thighs, my belly and my pussy.

Switch-flashy bits of pain flickered when errant strands of the flogger caught my clit, my labia, my anus. The pain lit on and off the bright white of warning lights. Pop! pop! the snaps of pain on my girl bits snapped like the obsolescent flashbulbs of 1940’s paparazzo’s cameras. (I would still, a week later, sport a lavender-green confetti of bruises on my inner thighs from the flogging.)

Donny’s voice murmured over the switch-swish thud of the flogger, over the slurp-slurp gasp of my cocksucking, over my own haggard, ragged breathing.

“You couldn’t do what I told you,” he said, “you greedy little slut. You had to speak, you had to break my rules. I’ll show you how to behave, slut, I’ll show you,” he said in elliptical folds, the nonsense of D/s speak, the gentle susurration of power that I find comforting, somehow. His rhythms of speech a complex syncopated counter lyric to the flogging, the sucking, the pop! pop! pop! of unanticipated pain.

“You couldn’t follow my directions, you stupid slut.”

In a phrase, the moment was gone. “You stupid slut”: It was a big Gong Show hook in my navel that carried me back into full presence. These four syllables ripped me from the plausible denial of reality that D/s requires; it ripped me out and I was back to myself again.

I sprang up. I’m not stupid, I said. You can’t call me stupid. You can call me “whore” or “slut” or “lazy slut” or “disobedient slut” or “inattentive slut,” but you can’t call me “stupid slut.”

Donny looked surprised, his flogger hanging at his side, his mouth open and his cock upright and glistening hot pink.

He laughed. I laughed. We hugged one another on our knees.

“You’re right,” he said, “you’re not stupid. I won’t call you stupid.” He kissed me and laughed again.

“Now get on your hands and knees because I’m going to fuck you until I come.”

I did. He did. And all was right with the world.

Comments

[gillottina]

Ah, the vicissitudes of talking dirty. My friend Beth once requested that her lover talk dirty to her. He said he didn't know how, and she said "Just, you know, humiliate me." So the next time they were in bed, he called her a stupid jerk.

No, Paul - humiliate *her*.

[Shay]

Good for you CG, I'm glad you didn't let something like that slide at the moment and then eat away at you later.
It's wonderful that you can be so honest with Donny.

[Introspectre]

~laughs long and heartily~

Fuck the hell yah. Hello, rude awakening. Stupid? Donny let his adjectives run away from himself while caught up in his passion.

Silly man won't do THAT again.

Now, back to groveling at your feet....

[Jeff]

While you are many things, (all good), stupid isn't one of them!!

You have such an engaging ability to suck me in CG, and it's truly wonderful. You're gifted. This was brilliantly told, as always.

- Jeff

[Sofa King Stoned]

I have to say that is probably the most intimate moment between two people I have seen depicted in any blog, sex or otherwise. Jolly good show! That kind of moment makes your work stand out from the others. I look forward to your book.

[dexplorer]

Chelsea Girl--

"I sprang up. I’m not stupid, I said. You can’t call me stupid. You can call me “whore” or “slut” or “lazy slut” or “disobedient slut” or “inattentive slut,” but you can’t call me “stupid slut.”

God I want you Chelsea Girl.

You're just about perfect.

[chelsea girl]

Thanks, dude. I much appreciate your free validation.

kissykiss,
chelsea girl