Dear Kinky Readers,
Thanks so much for the private messages of support & encouragement ... and ideas for what happens next to my helpless lovebirds. Keep them coming, plzzzz! And thanks for all the others words of welcome. I like it here, think I'll stick around.
xxox Emm
* * * * * * * * *
"Couples Counseling" Part Two
by Emmalee_Strict
©2024
*Thwickety-twickety-twickety-twickety!*
"Eyes open, pets, and keep 'em that way!" I bark as I flog. "On each other, eh?"
Paige is slower to obey me, so I flick the tip of my whip stab-like at her calf.
*Thwack!*
"
Meeeff
!" Her shocked eyes popping open, my kitten squeals into the fat rubber ball that fills her mouth and fastens it to the vertical chain. I like to think she is recalling my admonition about 'punishment-for-hesitation,' and she'll do better next time.
*Thwickety-thwick!* my whip lectures the tautly suspended bodies of my married playthings: rapid-fire, percussively and with controlled forbearance. I can make a whip kiss or cut, sing or sizzle, badger or bite -- or fucking punish -- with practiced admixtures of wrist, forearm and bicep. Mostly now, I am testing them with wrist. Backhand and fore, up, down and diagonally, my free hand catching and feeding the tasseled tip back out for added precision, I am treating them to a master's course in the art and science of a light whipping.
I've been laying in a pelting rain of lashes for a good three or four minutes now, and observing the results with lascivious interest. My lenience is evident from the cute, pastel-pink of the stripes that crisscross their legs, asses, backs and sides -- although there are lots of them -- but really, it's been 'Intro Pain-Tolerance 101' so far.
Wanting to be even-handed about it, I decide to give Tosh something to disobey, or mis-obey, so that there's no appearance that I'm singling out (singling-tailing out?) Paige for punishment.
"You, puppy-boy, let's see those hips dance for me, mambo-mambo - faster!"
Whether it's his stubborn resistance to submitting to me, the restrictions of the bondage, or his lack of basic dance moves, Tosh is awkward, hesitant to shake his booty.
*Thwick!* I stripe his thigh.
"Mfff!"
"Did I tell you to shut your eyes, slut?"
*Thwick!*
"MFFF!"
I glance at Paige, who is looking back at me with a sort of co-conspiratorial smile in her eyes. "What part of 'eyes on each other'...?"
*Thwick!*
"Mmhh!"
Lessons learned, I hope.
Here, I pause. I sort of regret telling Tosh how to move, because the whole point of this opening exercise is observe them react naturally and spontaneously to corporal punishment, one of the most basic and fundamental acts of domination. Time for a reset.
"Settle down, pets. When I resume, let's have you keep perfectly still."
Once I do, of course, they don't.
No, I'm too good at this,
I laugh.
*Thwickety-thwick.*
My whiplashes reveal a distinct contrast between my two playthings. My puppy-boy's response is to tough it out, grunt rhythmically, bear the pain like a man ...sort of 'hardened.' My kitten's reaction to her lashes is similarly defensive, but with a controlled sort of desperation that I recognize ... she is fighting her ticklishness.
For one thing, score a point for Paige on the pain-tolerance ledger. For another, I think about the 'tickling' thing, which in BDSM is fraught and mysterious. My favorite top, Victor (more on him later), once told me told me he'd played with at least five subs who made tickling a hard-NO limit. Mind you, these same bitches had no problem with a face-slap, caning, sensedep, even bloodletting ... but tickling? Bright red line.
Now, me, I'm not the least ticklish, believe it or not, so I have trouble grasping this. But I have a theory. Unlike the self-discipline a sub can learn to manage with pain, voice or orgasm, for the truly ticklish, there is a
complete loss of control
. Nothing she can do about it. And that, more than excruciating torture, terrifies the shit out of her.
So for Paige, I add this to her attention-mongering personality and her high pain threshold, weigh in her eager readiness to follow my direction (hello, rules freak), and come to a preliminary finding.
Which I'm going to come out and tell her. But first, I coil up the whip in my hand, sidle up behind her, and fondle her scrumptious bubble-butt.
"You, kitty-slut," I whisper in her ear so that her husband can't hear, "have an attachment to control that borders ... on the unhealthy."
"Mm-mmm-mmh," she replies. Fluent in gagspeak, I read that as,
I know, I can't help it.
"I should warn you, to me that says, 'I'm a latent submissive, who secretly craves a take-down."
I rake my fingers across the freshest stripe I laid across both cheeks. She sighs.
I add a little
purr
to my whisper. "Which, in your case, slut, may need to be rather ...
forceful
."
#-#
A month or so after I had come out to Paige and Tosh (but well before their current marital difficulties began), I met them one summer night in the city for a double-date at Minerva's with my best mate, Victor.
'Switch-mate,' actually, is the term for our relationship that we use privately. Victor, a transplanted Quebecer, is my number one, hands-down favorite booty call -- apart from being a loyal friend, trusted confidant, and the occasional shoulder to cry on. (Even a Domme can get down in the dumps.) About half the time we get together, it's straightforward, albeit amazing, vanilla fucking. The other half, we play. Who dominates whom depends on our mood, or sometimes a toss of the coin. When he wins the flip, I address him as Victor. When I'm on top, I call him Victim.
Anyway, I bring up this particular dinner date because it was the first time I began consciously eyeing, and assessing, the power dynamic between the power couple. I started doing it after I noticed Paige was all too happy to dominate the conversation on behalf of the four of us, and to make it about herself.
"I was the first one to say it out loud, Scorsese is
done
as a great filmmaker!"
Not that Paige's grandstanding was a drag on the conversation. She's articulate, an engaging storyteller, and funny as shit. And besides, who doesn't love watching a pretty girl with bright blue eyes flap her lips when they're as yummy and pouty as Paige's?
Secretly, I was taking mental notes. There was a bit of "let me tell it, dear" in the way she would break in on what Tosh was saying. She freely interrupted him when he spoke, but when he returned the favor, she seemed miffed at him. Just slightly. You had to have a keen eye to catch it, and I have a keen eye.
I turned that eye on Tosh. Now, I was a long way from concluding that he was straight-up P-whipped. I knew he's the naturally quiet, taciturn type. Watching him that evening, I sensed an inner calculation whirring in his head as he studied Paige's behavior, as if taking notes like me, tallying up... I don't know what.
Studying her for weaknesses, maybe?
That was a weird thought. Again, I shouldn't say this, but 'inscrutable.' Whatever it was, I read 'simmering conflict.'
The point is, I had that evening firmly in mind a year or so later, when they brought their dispute to me, and it all clicked into place. And again, now as I have them strung up for a whipping.
There's another point in mentioning that dinner date at Minerva's, which has to do with Victor's presence at it. And his visible contrast with Paige. First, you need to picture him: He's Black, a real big guy, almost brutishly imposing with this tall, muscular frame (a gentle giant, though -- soft-spoken, deferential, says he's never been in a fight in his life). When we fuck, I usually want missionary, because I love having the sheer, African mass of him on top of, and driving into, me. However, when we play and I bottom, there's a funny dynamic; it's actually not much of a turn-on that he towers over, outweighs, and outmuscles me; there are myriad other things about his Dom skills that make me melt and mewl at his feet, but his size isn't one of them.
And this brings us back to Paige. When I'm super-attracted to a girl, chances are I'm going to picture her on one end or the other of a leash. And if I see myself on the
collared
end, there's a certain physical type I want on the other: notably smaller than me, but wiry and athletic, boyishly slender about the hips, and flat-chested.
There, I said it.
Why is this, you ask? I think it has something to do with my lifelong self-consciousness about my imposing frame, and the "big personality" that goes with it, that I secretly crave to have both of them brought low and humbled at the feet of the
willowy, waifish gym-rat that I could never be.
You guessed it, Paige checks all my boxes. And pushes the corresponding sexual buttons. And then some, that I didn't know I had. Her voice, for one thing, so musical, enchanting, and commanding at the same time.
And her selfishness. I wanted to lose
my self
in it.
I thought about that again much later, the night after I'd laid my 'indecent proposal' on them, went back to my dungeon and masturbated. That was when I first realized, confronted, and tried to temper, my hope that Paige would win the contest I proposed to the two bickering lovebirds.
Because if she did, I wanted ... deeply, wetly,
ravenously
wanted ... to
mentor
her. I would show her all my best tricks of the trade, of domination, bondage and discipline. And I would offer her a live model to work on.
And that model would
me.
#-#
"Listen up, my pets."
I reach up and crank the ratchet-release lever on the overhead pulley, easing them down from their taut suspension. Their heels regain the tiled floor. I give a little slack to their arms. The ballgags no longer tip their chins up, and their faces are levels, eyes obediently on one another.
"In conflict resolution, there's a tool called the 'talking stick.' Whoever holds the stick holds the floor, and no one can interrupt until the stick is passed off to someone else. This is like that, but the opposite. It's the 'no-talking ball."
I tap on their gags. "If you've got the ball, then soory, you aren't permitted to speak."
I giggle, "Kind of obvious, I guess, eh? Anyway, one of you is going to get the privilege of giving up the ball and getting three minutes to make the case for your position on this little spat of yours. In the interest of fairness, first speaker to be determined by a coin toss."
I show them the dollar coin. "You call it, puppy-boy. Heads or tails?"
"Theh-thhh."
"Tails it is." I flip the coin, catch it and show them. Heads; advantage Paige. I unstrap her gag. She works her jaw and licks her lips. I note the time on the far wall. "You're on the clock, kitten."
