Over the past several weeks, Chris has tried gamely to convince me to ask for a hairbrushing.
This, right now, I cannot do. I tried, really I did. I knew it would please him to take a piece of ebony or mahogany to my bottom until I was beyond whining. I knew it would please him in a convoluted way to end a punishment that has gone on much longer than either of us anticipated when he imposed it…
Maybe I should back up.
Sometime in very early March, Chris and I were in bed. This is not an uncommon occurrence, as we sleep together every night. The uncommon part of this particular evening was that I had an orgasm without permission from him. That is, I am supposed to ask permission to orgasm and he is supposed to say yes before the actual climax occurs. On this particular night, there was some breakdown in this sequence and a breakdown in this sequence means, in general, that I will be punished – either that night or the next.
As it happened, we didn’t get around to it the next night. Or the night after that. Or the night after that, etc. Now, there were very good reasons for the delay – we moved house, my father-in-law was resident on the couch just past our bedroom door, Chris was out half the night for an unexpected emergency, we were utterly exhausted in every capacity from moving, lifting, carrying, packing, unpacking, and so on.
Eight days later, we were cuddled up together in exhaustion but quite contentedly and things were progressing in quite the pleasurable fashion when Chris announced that since I had delayed my punishment by eight days, I would be punished eight times.
Cripes.
For those gentle readers who don’t know, Chris and I have a relationship that is a mix of my independent and his over-arching authority. It’s a rather complex arrangement that we’ve grown into – certainly we wouldn’t have concocted it to start out with – but one of the realities is that he has the opportunity and ability to direct our intimate behavior in a way that is pleasing to him. Certainly he takes my pleasure, needs and desires into account – and even pursues them relentlessly most of the time – but it’s still his prerogative to do anything, to do nothing, or to direct what we do. One prerogative he exercises regularly is to say when I can climax and when I may not.
Besides the obvious spanking, the punishment for unintended, intended, accidental, or deliberately invoked orgasms without permission first requested and granted is an ass-fucking. I think I’ve admitted it before on a blog, but it isn’t something I like to advertise. It’s not that I’m ashamed of it, but it is embarrassing, you know, and I actually do know many of you who read my blog. So if you mention this to me the next time we have dinner together and I look at you blankly and change the subject – or dive under the table and then hide in the bathroom until dessert is finished – you have only yourself to blame for bringing it up.
Why is it a punishment? It’s not because the act itself is demoralizing, or because Chris does it in a way that physically hurts (he’s quite considerate, really). I’m not phobic about it, and there’s no denying it pleases him. It’s a punishment simply because I find it nearly impossible to come from sex in that position. I can fantasize to the ninth degree, be wildly aroused, everything can be right, but it just doesn’t happen for me during anal intercourse. And even though I might have 3 or 4 orgasms before or after anal intercourse itself, the most satisfying orgasms and the most stunning sex are – for me – experienced during vaginal intercourse.
So there, you have it. Chris set me for eight of these occasions and I really had no standing to argue about it. Even if I hadn’t earned the punishment, he could have easily just imposed a random sentence of 8 such ‘punishments’ for no reason other than that it pleased him to do so.
Still, it seems to have gone on forever. Yes, of course I’m climbing the walls wanting to be fucked. I mean, it’s mid-April and we just finished. Eight times in six weeks, you say? What happened to the three times a week marriage? Well, sheesh. There was still moving to be finished, exhausted nights, sore muscles and a lot of groaning. There was the monthly menstrual cycle (don’t even suggest mixing the two, please). There were the regular bouts of oral sex that didn’t count, houseguests of the familial and non-kinky varieties, late nights, a 4-year-old’s bad dreams and the requisite virus.
While engaged in the foreplay to enjoy Number Seven, he offered me a deal. He’d scrap the last two in return for two hairbrushings. All I had to do was ask.
I couldn’t do it.
He gave me time – what time was reasonable given the fact that I was naked and we were pretty far along in the age-old game. But I couldn’t do it. The words were there on my tongue, but I couldn’t do it. I could frame the words in my head, knew what words needed to be said, but I couldn’t do it.
The next time, partly in response to my frustrated pouting, he offered to dump the eighth one in favor of a session with the ebony hairbrush.
All I had to do was agree – agree to a spanking with the ebony hairbrush and I could have all the fucking I wanted and desired.
I whimpered. I truly did not want a spanking with the ebony hairbrush and any of you who have experienced such a thing will understand why. But it would have pleased him to spank me with it.
Now yes, he can spank me with it any time he wants to. I know that and so does he. But what he wanted – what would have pleased him – would have been for me to have chosen the thing. To have willingly participated instead of having it mandated and enforced over and above my grumbling.
But I couldn’t do it.
I don’t know why – I don’t know or understand why asking for a spanking has suddenly and unexpectedly become difficult (I did ask for a flogging the other day, but that’s not painful, that’s fun). I don’t know or understand why asking for a hairbrushing is impossible. But I hope it goes away soon, because Chris likes for me to ask.
And I like to ask.
