Overwhelmed, Part Three
Sir and SG returned to the living room. I didn’t look up, staying in the position they’d left me in until Sir grabbed me by the hair and pulled me up until I was holding onto the back of the couch. He pushed down on the small of my back until I dipped my ass out, biting my lip in anticipation of the pain that I knew was about to come.
“She was mocking me the other day that I didn’t get to give her any birthday spanks,” Sir explained and smacked me across the ass with the tawse. I yelped and jumped up a bit before he eased me back into position. “But now that we’re somewhere nice and private, I thought you might like to help."
I looked over my shoulder as Sir grabbed onto the loop between my cuffs to hold my hands out of the way. SG had picked up the riding crop and swung it hard against my ass, as if to gauge my reaction to it. He’s not the sort of guy to use anything besides his hands, but he was clearly enjoying himself. "That sounds like a good idea,” he replied to Sir.
“So we’ll alternate, then,” Sir said, taunting me by tapping the tawse against the top of my ass. Suddenly, as if something had occurred to him, Sir set the tawse down and tugged me back by the cuffs on my wrists. He slipped down beside me and slid a pair of nipple clamps into place. I pouted and he put me back into position. “Are you ready, dear?”
“Uh huh,” I replied around the bit gag, already starting to feel drool gather at the corners of my mouth, drawn out by the way my head hung.
The two began to alternate hits, counting as each made contact. Sir mostly stayed on my right buttcheek with the tawse and SG with crop, but a few hits wandered more towards the center. I cried out with each hit – they were getting progressively harder – and I felt my eyes well up with tears, felt drool puddle onto the top of my breasts.
By the twentieth hit, Sir rubbed my shoulder. “Are you ready, baby? Three more.”
“I can’t,” I whined behind the gag. “I can’t, it hurts so much."
I should preface this moment by saying that I have a safeword, and it’s not "I can’t.” Sometimes, I want a push, I want to be reassured that I can continue to take this sort of pain. I want to build that tolerance and get into the endorphins and feel proud of what I’ve taken. And because I’ve been in a relationship with Sir for a year – and been playing with him longer than that – I trust him to know when to push and to draw the line where I just can’t take any more.
“You can,” he reassured, mussing my hair. “Are you ready to keep going?"
I nodded and the two resumed, delivering the final three hits. I collapsed against the couch, whining in the pain glowing across my rear and the dull throb of my clamped nipples. Sir pulled me upright and kissed my temple. I could tell that he was very proud. And I felt so incredibly strong and resilient that I was thrilled with myself.
But Sir was right, he called it. It only got messier:
You said you wanted to be pretty. You said you wanted all the attention. Be careful what you ask for, sweetheart, it may be messier than you expected.