The Looking Glass Act II

(Note – If you wish, you can listen to the same song that Leigh & I did while the following occurred. Just open the link in a new window)

To read The Looking Glass Act I

“So when the sun goes down
And those nights grow colder,
I will be there
Looking over your shoulder. “

– The Deeper The Love, Whitesnake

I couldn’t help but hear David Coverdale’s voice as I looked over Leigh’s shoulder. The sun had gone done, and the nights had grown colder. And there I was behind her.

Our eyes gazed into one another’s through the mirror’s reflection, a precursor of what the next fifteen or so minutes held for us. My face, only partially visible, floated above her left shoulder. There was a macabre quality to the way the candle illuminated my features with drama, some areas almost void. My right arm draped across her chest, the left around her stomach. Candlelight makes my forearms damn impressive, if I say so myself. It looked like a muscular snake had coiled around her nude form.

Leigh, on the other hand, looked like a goddess.

If you have read any of the stories I’ve shared, you know that candles are de facto to our play. The sputter and hiss of wicks singing anew are often the first part of the ritual, usually followed by the bedroom door being shut. Leigh and candlelight go together like peanut butter and jelly. They were made for one another, the sum greater than their parts. She glows under their flickering gaze. The blank canvas that is her alabaster skin becomes a masterpiece of erotic theater. Hues of pale tangerine and warm cream hint at its texture. Aside from the pale blue of the first light of day, she never looks sexier than she does when awash in candlelight.

Having a candle not even arm’s length from where we stood made her skin torturous. I wanted to devour her. The mmmmmmmmmmm of the vibrator’s RPMs would more than sufficiently do the same. In time.

“You,” I said trailing a kiss down her nape, “look incredible.” More dry bites, my eyes on hers in the mirror, my hands on each breast in the reflection. To feel her nipples harden under my touch, but see her whole body’s reaction to the same, was exquisite.

“So,” scraping my teeth across her arched neck, “fucking,” taking the opportunity to use my tongue on the same, ” beautiful.”

“Look at yourself” I exclaimed. It wasn’t an order, nor begging. It was shared excitement at the vision in the mirror, and I wanted to share it.

She looked into my eyes, not the reflection as a whole. The vibrator constantly hummed while a soulful melody filled the room.

“Not at me,” I said, “at you. Us. Look at how fucking beautiful you are.”

Her eyes left mine and joined her own in the mirror. She finally saw herself. Us. It.

Standing with legs slightly spread, her hand moved in slow, steady circles, each one a lap of her clit with the mini-vibe. Again and again the mmmmmmm faded slightly, each echo another tease. From behind, thick forearms enveloped her torso, their hands kneading each breast.

Leigh’s face was angelic in its slow surrender to her own manipulations. The music haunting us from across the room seemed all too perfect. Delicate, drawn out, the repetitious melody grew in intensity as the minutes passed. Her eyes closed as she sank back into my chest, each breath an escape. It was more prayer than seduction.

I really hope you chose to listen to the audio option provided to you. Perhaps you’ll get a small taste, a fleeting glimpse, a faint echo of what I was privy to as the first moans escaped her throat. If you chose not to, that’s your right and I respect it. I think you’re a fool, but at least a respected one.

The gestalt of the scene enveloped me in a hypnotic spell. Just as Leigh seduced her body with her hand, I succumbed to her siren’s song. Not one of lyrics or verse, but rather of spells and hints.

Leigh exhaled in drawn out sighs, indicating she was becoming aroused. It wouldn’t be long until they were replaced with moans or purring.

My eyes played leap frog. Mirror. Over her shoulder. My hands. Back to the mirror. Her breasts. My hands on them. Back on her face. Now at her face. Down to her hand on her clit. Then her arm using the oak dresser as support.

“Be careful,” I said, while moving the candle mere inches from where she gripped the dresser’s edge, “we don’t need to be explaining the kinky burn pattern to the EMTs when they arrive.”

She laughed, drawing some much needed levity.

“Yeah, it would be difficult to explain how I got burnt there…and there…and there” she replied, all the while the mmmmmmmmm of the mini-vibe kept perfect time.

Now it was my turn to laugh. We both smiled at each other’s reflection. Our eyes met.

Her moan brought us both back to the matter at hand. Literally.

I trailed my fingers down the length of her left arm, with which she held the dresser. Goosebumps leapt from her skin, their shadows easily discernible in the candle’s glow. As my fingertips danced across the thin flesh of her inner forearm she purred loudly. The vibe purred louder as well.

A nipple grew rigid between my fingers. My lips greeted her offered throat. We danced as lovers, not moving a single step, yet completely in time to the rhythm of the moment, a vibrator steadily agitating her clitoris. By her own hand. At that moment neither of us could imagine the lengths to which we were going to need to go to get to where she needed to be.

We were about to find out just how far that was.

Advertisements

The Words Of Power

I know, it should be “The Power Of Words.”

And they are powerful. Physical wounds will mend, but the ones caused by verbal cutting? They linger, cripple, haunt. The scar that never quite heals.

I thought of this last night as I wrote the climatic ending (pun intended) to Act V of Seek And Go Hyde:

“You may come.”

And with that Leigh exploded in a primal grunt all over me, her hands practically tearing her nipples loose in the process. They were almost cartoonish in how far their delicate skin stretched from being pulled so violently. But nowhere near as violent as the drenching orgasm that consumed us both.

With a massive gush Leigh screamed “I’M A PAIN SLUT I’M A PAIN SLUT FUCK I’M A PAIN SLUT.” She was practically hysterical with lust, the waves of each multiple crashing into her repeatedly, their damage measured in how badly her swollen cunt leapt out to suck in my cock.

The spray from her ejaculate hit me in the face. I licked my lips at the shock.

Told you it was sweet.

All the while she kept repeating her kinky mantra over and over, each time more guttural, deeper from within her, until out of nowhere she literally screamed at the top of her lungs:

“I. LOVE. WHEN. YOU. FUCKING. BEAT. ME!!!!”

And with that collapsed into a seething, panting heap on the bed.

Yes, she actually screamed that. And I can assure you that was Leigh as about as raw as I have ever seen her. The physical duress she was enduring via being forced to countless squirting multiple orgasms was brutal. But it was my insistence that she verbalize what she hates to admit that, I feel, pushed her to a point where she screamed what she did with the conviction of an executioner.

This is part of the beauty of D/s, especially when heated to a melting point in the forge of BDSM. I experience it as well. For everything Leigh and I share behind that closed bedroom door, for all the perversions, sadistic pleasures, sweet pain, there is one thing that I crave more than her vaginal fluids soaking through multiple layers of bedding all the way to the mattress.

Her manners.

I am addicted to hearing her beg permission to orgasm. And that pales in comparison to when she thanks me after each one.

Now, don’t get me wrong. The physical is amazing. Ironically in a post about the power for words I am at a loss for the best ones to attempt to describe how fucking intense all of this is. Which I guess speaks to the strength of our D/s dynamic. It’s more powerful than words, which is really saying something that can’t be said with words!

What?

I need more coffee. Un memento, por favor.

And my favorite part of when we share each other’s dark side? The aftercare. When she is so far gone inside herself that it’s my turn to drown her in sweet nothings. And often all she can say is a meek “Thank you Sir” through a doll’s eyes before she goes away to the land of floaty floaty.

Right there. Looking in those empty pools of blue, when she says three words to me. That’s when I start to soar, my wings full on the wind of her beautiful submission. And I fucking fly into Topspace.

But that night, when she threw that one raw statement at me like a dagger, that was different.

Sitting here, right now, coffee within reach, it just occurred to me that when Leigh screamed “I. LOVE. WHEN. YOU. FUCKING. BEAT. ME!!!!” that Hyde had an orgasm.

(For you virginal Peekers™ a little history about Hyde)

Of course he can’t actually come. I do that. But in his own sadistic, perverted manner, forcing Leigh to that admission at the height of a brutal squirting orgasm was his own release. Whatever the chemical biology of satisfaction and its counterparts are, imagine that multiplied 100x. Now detonate that inside your soul like a kinky roadside bomb.

I came without coming. And it stopped me fucking cold. After that it was my turn. You’ll read about that later this week. But the fucker wouldn’t let me come until he did. All over both of us. Inside my head, soul and spirit, and out of Leigh’s mouth. The saturated mess around us both was just icing on his cake.

And, sadly, there are also the way in which certain words will forever be raw, open wounds to some. A few Peekers™ know this too well, including a special one that is near and dear to a number of us who blog in the darkest corner of the WordPress basement. For them, Leigh’s statement yelled at the height of consensual arousal conjures up bad memories, feelings and emotions. Very bad. Not consensual. Or asked for.

I pondered sharing what Leigh said, but ultimately decided to allow you all to react as you will. I did feel strongly about adding the * disclaimer at the end.

BDSM has been long thought of in a similar manner. And given the phenomenon of that certain neutral hued book series interest in WIITWD is likely at an all-time high. It’s important that those who have been here all the while be careful with how we present what can easily be misunderstood as sexual assault, or worse. They need to know that the key is communication.

Or, in other words, words. Just like the written ones above.

– Scot

Interview With A Submission Vampire Vol.1 No.13

Another Selfish Sunday, another IWASV™ at highway speeds.

The way the blog is starting to resemble a snowball rolling down an Alpine mountainside toward the sleepy, unexpecting village in the valley below feels like blogging above the speed limit as well. I’ll touch on this more sometime tomorrow morning in my weekly Monday java musings slash feeble attempt to chemically jump start my nervous system via massive doses of caffeine and smart ass commentary. But thank you all in advance.

If you are a long time (all of not four months makes you an old timer) Peeker™ you should be familiar with Leigh and mine’s adoration of spanking. She craves the good pain and release that a proper ass blistering can provide. I crave the way a few thousand well placed spanks from my hand can send her so far inside herself, as well as the simplistic reality that it’s humbling and fun as fuck to spank her snowy (more snow references) white ass cherry read.

It’s certainly a symbiotic relationship. Each of us feed off what the other brings, provides and gives freely via the course of a spanking session. Anyone who does not believe in the power exchange aspect of WIITWD is full of shit in my opinion. I’ve blogged about this on numerous occasions. Feel free to review the Random Musings in The Archives for more on my feelings regarding this.

But (heh, I said but while discussing spanking) back to the topic at hand (I’m killing myself here). Peeker™ surrenderedone offered this lovely question in regards to spanking, subspace/Topspace, limits and the power exchange that ties it all together (ooooh, bondage). She wanted to know:

“When Sir and I recently spent a long weekend together, we explored erotic spanking further.  I think my reactions to His spanking caused Him to worry He was hurting me too much for me to handle, and I wasn’t sure how to reassure Him.  I have read enough of your experiences to know that it is a process, that in some ways it seems to be like “hitting” the wall before the endorphins fit in. Both He and I want to push the limits further….to reach that “place.”  Are there any tips you have for reassuring each other and not being afraid to just “let go”?  We both feel we stopped before we really got to the good stuff ;)”

First, thank you for thinking enough of us to ask a spanking question. We are relative newcomers (heh) to this as well.

Spanking can be a (bad joke warning) hit or miss proposition. There are so may ways to approach how to not just incorporate this into your play but also just how. It seems a number of proponents embrace the few but fierce approach of a limited number of actual blows but at a velocity that is close to, if not at, their physical capabilities to deliver. Plus there is the whole issue of striking implements such as paddles, straps, canes, etc.

For the sake of my reply I will deal with the classic bare hand on bare ass. Its hard (I give up) to go wrong with this approach, but with it may I offer these suggestions:

– Start slow and low, as in not that violent. Warm the skin up, get the blood flowing, ease into the scene. You wouldn’t start your car on a freezing January morning and floor the accelerator to red line the RPMs, would you? Then use the same approach when warming your submissive’s ass.

– Use tempo. A slow steady rhythm that can be built on, increased in pace as the scene progresses. To build intensity rapidly strike the same ass cheek in repetition. A ten or twenty count on the same cheek is vastly different from the same alternating every other butt cheek.

– SDS. Cannot convey how important striking they Same Damn Spot repeatedly is. This builds endorphins like nothing else. Don’t wander. Find the submissive’s sweet spot, focus and hit it in succession with our waver. You’ll see.

– Build in breaks to the scene. This is where the Dominant needs to earn their stripes. The ability to know when their submissive has reached a certain level, a plateau, then push them just a little further than they think they can go. Now stop. Allow blood to flow back to the abused area. You’ll be rewarded on a variety of levels for this. It gives the submissive a chance to acclimate to their situation, perhaps get some endorphins, and also the increased blood return should aid in the acquisition of welts and bruises, which are oddly important to most submissives post scene.

– Now start all over but a little harder. Increase the force of the blows, the intensity, etc. Repeat all of the above. With each new round of spanks just keep doing what I described above, but with just a little more force, a hair more intensity.

– Eventually you will both reach a state where it is obvious that you have arrived at, or more specifically pushed each other to, what you think are your limits. This is where communication is key, and why safe words are so important. Until the submissive cries yellow or red, the Dominant should continue. The Dominant should know their submissive well enough to read body language, breathing patterns, muscle tension, verbal cues, etc.

Both of you will need to trust the other implicitly. The submissive will be at ease knowing that the Dominant will not ignore their impending limits but also push them a little. The Dominant will trust that as long as the submissive does not safe w0rd that everything, regardless of what it may appear, is fine. The submissive must NOT be proud! This is crucial. To endure any sort of BDSM play well past the point of “good pain” is dishonest. It is OK to call red, to admit that is enough. But before one does, trust the Dominant to know if you are capable of more than you may think. Likewise, as the Dominant it is your job to know when to push and when to back off.

In the end, it’s all about communication and trust. Don’t abuse either from either role in the D/s dynamic and you both will be rewarded. Don’t be afraid to be afraid, either of you. It’s OK.

I hope this helps you both push past that edge and into a whole new level of “letting go.”

– Scot

A Peek Back 8-18

I promised, after last’s weeks tangent on safe words, this week would be story intensive. So far I feel that I have honored my word.

Counting poetry, which is special to me in that it’s about one person and one person only (my Leigh), there are five new pieces of erotica to read. And, before midnight Sunday, there will be at least two more.

That would be, since I was in school the day they covered sevens, seven stories and poems in seven days. Its been a challenge to keystroke that much and have the confidence in them to click Publish. But I have enjoyed it, and from the page views so have you. There is a very good chance we could set a single week views record.

Very soon, likely in the next week or so, you will be all privy to some flogging stories, or at least one. Our initial foray into flog play went very well. Leigh was quite floaty, and I was rather proud of my neophyte efforts with the leathers. She has given this avenue the green light, so it’s very likely that as the days grow shorter our flogging stories will grow longer (heh).

I fucking love using it on her. Not gonna lie. But there is so much to learn and consider when using one. Practice, practice, practice. Plus Leigh has had a most unique challenge this week. You’ll read more about that as well.

If you’re a first time Peeker™ Leigh and I welcome you to your virginal peek through the keyhole. I strongly encourage you to view all of the established Pages, which can be viewed by selecting any of the tabs at the top of this page.

The Archives are an inclusive, running version of every post of note on this blog. If you have not read any or all of the stories, random musings, poetry, etc linked from The Archives by all means please grab a seat, perhaps a cup of coffee (we’re big on coffee) sit back and enjoy.

Speaking of coffee, read this week’s Peek Back as I get some more:

Interview With A Submission Vampire Vol.1 No.12 – In leu of a Peeker™ question I accepted another blogging award. This means ten more pieces of Scot Trivia…sigh.

The Greatest Coffee Excuse Is 6 AM Monday – Considering I was barely awake this week’s assortment of random musings was pretty good.

Drip Drop – An erotic poem inspired by the candlelit vision that was Leigh’s chained, spread eagle pose.

Scenesounds – While we haven’t added music to scenes, this is why and also some we might when we do.

The Butterfly Chains Act II – My sadistic plans took an unexpected turn when Leigh’s erotic beauty cast a spell.

An Erotic World Champion Poet – My poem Drip Drop was featured in a cleverly named ePub. I’m totally claiming this.

Breaking Leigh Act XI – The final act in the longest story on the blog, and a very special one to me personally.

Breaking Leigh – Epilogue – The postscript to the above. What happened later that night plus some thoughts on the story.

My Alabaster Doll – Another piece of erotic poetry, this time regarding the flogging of Leigh’s beautifully displayed breasts.

One last thing, a confession if you will. I’m actually typing this Friday evening. Oh, I didn’t lie about getting more coffee. I am. Just not as I prepare to finalize this so I can sleep in with my doll.

Am I sorry to have possibly told a creative truth earlier?

Nope…

– Scot

My Alabaster Doll

Your throat offered proudly as

you knelt in the shadows of

submission to my leather ways and

candlelit nights ablaze with the

promises whispered in the dark

hiding moans inside you

all this time I will

I must I crave your

wrists proudly behind

your torso awash in

warmth and leather biting

breasts so taut with ache from

sting you crave you must you

will it to be live breathe when

flogging my alabaster doll with

strokes of leather paint a

masterpiece of erotic beauty the likes of

which nipple to ripen with

strokes biting you

float away doll I’ll stay and

fuck these gentle curves to

silent frenzied screams inside

you better not make a fucking

sound of my cock deep

inside it growls snarls hisses

all over my alabaster doll with

white venom pulsing from

somewhere blacker than

the leather on the floor

– Scot (recalling the prior evening in which Leigh and I played with the flogger)

Breaking Leigh – Epilogue

(Note – this epilogue will have little meaning if you have not read Breaking Leigh)

12, 018 words to describe thirty minutes Leigh and I shared one amazing June evening. In literary terms that constitutes a novella.

When I signed Act XI the other evening I felt empty, vulnerable, fragile. It was akin to cradling a newborn, or handling other extremely delicate items that have personal value beyond measure. In a way I guess I was doing just that.

A memory. A precious moment now frozen in the sands of time and, through the marvels of 21st century digital technology, in bits and bytes for all of you to share in with us. I’m still, as I lie here on our bed not even five feet from where the story unfolded spank by smack, feeling a bit off. It’s entirely possible I’m experiencing an extremely mild and rare case of second-hand (heh) Topspace as a result of verbally articulating the keepsake that is the memory of that night.

I admit to actually being mildly afraid to writing that final Act out of not just the fear that I did not have the writing chops to do the moment’s beauty justice, but also that I was not sure how I was going to react myself. But I did, I am glad I did, and I am appreciative of everyone’s patience (I know, I know…) as Act to Act slowly unfolded like a rose bud into a full bloom.

Truth be told the night did not end there. Aftercare was administered with the same feelings that I mentioned above. Leigh was gone. Her body was there, but she was so far inside her self that only her gorgeous, school girl outfitted shell was there. I helped her to bed, got her some water, then wrapped myself around her. I held her tight, soothed her tears, stroked her hair, whispered enough sweet nothings to write a novella in and of themselves. Limp is an understatement as far as her body. She allowed me the honor of taking about everything that makes her Leigh and trusted me with it while she soared in subspace. There were no emotions left to give, no sparkle in what now looked like a doll’s eyes all glassy and black, not even the ability to hold me.

When she came back a short while later it was with a perverted vengeance.

We fucked like wild animals. Viciously. Sweating. Physical. Primal heat. Raw. We tried to kill one another with cunt and cock. The resultant mess of vaginal fluid soaked bedding and semen splattered plaid skirt was downright pornographic. Hyde got to play with Leigh’s counterpart. If a seething fuck is possible, we seethed each other’s brains out.

And I could have easily written another five or so Acts about that. But I won’t.

No, the end was when she looked back at me with her face a shambles of tear induced chaos and meekly smiled. Actually it just occurred to me that was Leigh saying “Thank you” in silence right before she left me for subspace.

This was a difficult story to write for, as I mentioned, a number of reasons. And for a number of Peekers™ it was a difficult story to read, especially the final three acts. Your Comments did not go unnoticed. It never occurred to me that by sharing our new memory that it may rip the scar off an old one for others, a wound that perhaps they did not willingly submit to receiving. If any undue trauma or the like resulted as an after effect of reading this story I apologize for your pain. Please know that Leigh’s desire to do this, as well as her eventual breakdown, were all done consensually with compassion, care, consideration, concern and above all love.

It may sound odd to those who do not understand or participate in WIITWD, but as violently as I attacked her ass with hand and hair brush every one of those strokes was administered with her well being in mind. The emotions that streamed out of her eyes in rivers were as pure as you can find, streams of salted emotion that flowed from the same pools from which tears of joy flow. You have to trust me on this. If you have ever just started crying from overwhelming happiness, or a stimuli of that sort, that is a variation of what she shed in great, heaving sobs over my knee.

It is NOT easy to just let go. Leigh’s role in our dynamic is far more complex and involved than mine. For her to truly experience the wondrous joy of total freedom and release she needs to leave reality behind. That is fucking difficult. Know why?

Because people fear themselves more than anything else. Leigh would argue she fears snakes more than anything, but I digress.

In her poem Our Greatest Fear Marianne Williamson sums this up best when she states:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

And she is right.

Leigh was powerful beyond measure that night. And I was, and am, blessed to have her as my best friend, coffee drinking bud, wife,  lover, kitchen helper, dog player wither, joke cracker, confidant, favorite hugger, slice of caker, and yes, my slutty doll behind a closed bedroom door.

– Scot

Breaking Leigh Act XI

(To read Breaking Leigh Act IAct IIAct IIIAct IVAct VAct VIAct VIIAct VIIIAct IX or Act X)

“And to think you have five more minutes of this before you’re done!” I seethed.

Which was true. I’d been, with a few breaks to allow her to plateau, been steadily blistering her ass cheeks for 25 minutes. Yes, I’d made a mental note as to when the first SMACK echoed that night. My telling her about the next 300 seconds of her life was two fold. It allowed me to stay in character, yet convey to Leigh critical information right as the scene was at its most intense. I never stopped spanking or said “yellow” or otherwise took away from the magic that we both had worked so hard to create. She now knew she only had five minutes of this torture left, which did wonders for her fight or flight reflex.

It’s the same as turning the last corner of the last lap of a mile race. Up until then your brain screams “STOP RUNNING YOU FUCK!” at your body. It has no idea how long this agony is going to continue. But when you can physically see the finish line that same brain, the one that has been holding reserve energy all along, says “Oh….OK. Here, have some more!” and you get a second wind in that you now know there will not just be an end but its in sight and will arrive soon.

The second reason I shared this tidbit with her was simple. It was fucking fun and sadistic.

“EhhhhHHHHHH!!!” she shrieked at the news, all the while the brush a virtual blur of CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACK on her now cherry red ass. Her legs kicked in frantic response. Panting gobs of air were as violently sucked in her as I was beating on her. Oh how she whimpered! Saliva patterns covered the floor and wall courtesy of her wretched breathing. The palms of her hands stomped flat with what I assume was a primal urge to escape, perhaps fight off the inevitable. The unmistakable sound of nasal congestion was a welcome newcomer to this erotic symphony. Why?

That meant that tears had to be not far behind.

I picked up the intensity. It was now or never.

“Four more minutes!” I yelled. The excitement in the air was beyond static. The air around us felt liquid, lush, alive, surging with the heat of the moment.

“UhhhHHuhhhUHhhUhhhUhhhhHHHuHHH!!!” was the almost drowning acknowledgment. If she wasn’t in full involuntary reply yet she was damn fucking close.

I brought the brush down at a level six for about ten spanks before I heard a frantic, hoarse voice call out. Through raspy, sucking breaths Leigh rasped “No more with the brush!!!”

This wasn’t playing. Fuck, it wasn’t even Leigh’s voice, or at least any voice I had ever heard emitted from her. This was yellow, as in “You’re very close to red, Scot. Listen to me.”

I admit I contemplated ignoring her plea. But this is where it pays to know your submissive. It wasn’t an “Oh no, not three more minutes of this!” reaction, but more “You have driven me past my so thought limits but one more and I’ll scream red” alert.

What to do?

I dropped the brush.

And then, with my bare hand, tore into her ass at a level seven.

SMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACKSMACK as if my life depended on how many vicious blows I could deliver as fast as possible in the same place. Over. And over. And over.

Leigh made an initial “OoohhhhhhHHHHHHHHH”….and then got quiet.

Like death quiet.

“Two more minutes” I said sternly, with admitted concern over her sudden silence. The only sounds I could hear were, to me, what were the auto reflex my arm had become delivering welt after welt to her ass cheeks and my heart beating out of my chest from exertion and love.

Those two dominated what seemed like an eternity to me, but in hindsight were likely not even half a minute, if that.

That’s when I heard it.

A sob.

One solitary, heaving, low pitched sob split the night like broken glass.

Then another.

Wailing. Not hysterical, or even wrought with feeling. Just long, lush, wet sounds coming in a slow, staggered rhythm. Sad, soulful, mourning something.

Leigh was crying.

And not just crying. Sobbing. What to me felt like gobs of tears bursting out one after the other, the emotions she had kept dammed up now just flowed, freed at last.

I had broken her. And she had given me the gift of her tears, a gift I wanted so badly to share with her. It was beautiful. And I mean fucking beautiful. There are no words in the English vernacular to even begin to describe how precious that moment was.

Through this all my hand never stopped once. I still spanked her as ferociously as I had been.

“Breath” I calmly offered. “Only one more minute.”

My left hand massaged her lower back, letting her know that even as I rode her hard to the finish that it was all out of compassion. I owed her these next sixty seconds.

I was not privy to the entirety of her face, obviously. But I could see the better portion of the left side of it. The glistening cheek bones told me everything.

She earned the right to sob uncontrollably in silence, to savor each tear, just let herself be, flow, exist. And she did, with exquisite sounding tears that were deep, primal, free of cause. Just running in rivers down her pretty face between each beautiful sob.

And that’s how I broke Leigh. Or more appropriately how we did.

When the clock reached the bottom of the hour my hand stopped. Caresses. Touches. Soft strokes of her beyond abused backside, my other hand massaging her back. All the while she just laid there across my lap and cried without restriction.

“That’s my good girl” I said with a smile. I was so proud of her.

She glanced back at me, her face a destroyed wreck of runny mascara, tear soaked cheeks, swollen eyes, puffy and flushed skin….and meekly smiled.

sigh

Aside from when I lifted her veil before kissing her as my wife for the first time, she may have never looked more beautiful.

– Scot

Breaking Leigh – Epilogue