Kneeling and Whipped

Last night I was trying to imagine a scenario that would quicken my s nature.

There were two rules. 1) I couldn’t touch myself my response had to come only from my heart, not from manipulating my skin. 2) No boot worship.

This sequence emerged. Like most of my fantasies it wasn’t tightly fixed making it tough to capture. I’m often amazed by guys who know she must, say, be wearing a green dress.

Alexandra was in her dark red top and longish leather skirt.

(OK, that is very specific. But she has the outfit and it can make me feel very submissive. My mind did wander to her long denim skirt. It doesn’t always have to be shiny stuff. Plain functional clothes can have plenty of authority.)

She had me kneel. My wrists were bound to my genitals, my ankles to each other. My body could move but my limbs were allowed minimal freedom. She covered my head with a hood.

Down from my back, up from my thighs she worked over me. With what I wasn’t sure: slappy, snappy things: floggers, lengths of leather.

Removing my hood she asked me if I’d had enough. Dazedly I nodded yes. But the question was only rhetorical, asked only to misdirect.

Next came her canes, focusing on my buttocks and thighs. As she progressed the blows grew less predictable: pauses fooled me, a sharp blow might be followed with a gentle tap.

She stopped and stood there silently. Then placed a gag in my mouth.

Her single tail played across all of my backside.

Finally it was over. She freed me and took my head into her lap holding me until my mind came back to earth.

How did I feel during all this? I wasn’t sure. But wouldn’t mind finding out.