Punch Drunk

I’m sitting at V and E’s kitchen table, eating scrambled eggs that he cooked for me and poking in an absent way at the tender spot on my upper arm. His daughter sits across from me, chattering happily.  I think about how strange this is, to be sitting here, part of his family, while only last night he had been punching me in the arms, legs and chest while I tried to suppress my yelps so as not to wake his wife and child.

Strange and wonderful.

But strange. I’m still adjusting to these new relationships – the one with him, the one with his wife, and the one in which I am part of their family, at least peripherally.

But more on that later.

This night, not more than fifteen minutes before we began to roll about and tussle on the couch, V and I had been having a rather intense, tequila-and-diet-sprite fueled discussion about…well, I would say it was about being willing to entertain the idea that there might be more to our existence than just this, the here and now. He would probably say that I was arguing against reason and reality. The funny part is that I had these same debates with W, who was as staunchly atheist as V is…and yet I am an atheist too. But there is a small part of me that wishes to be proven wrong, and I worry that if I am – if they are – they will be so narrowly set in their beliefs that they will deny the wonder of there being more.

Or maybe I just like to play devil’s advocate. A good, rousing debate always gets my blood pumping.

Anyway, earlier in the day I’d been bantering back and forth on the Kik group I belong to about punching and being punched. I had answered with an enthusiastic “yes!” on the topic. I love rough body play, and in fact am negotiating a rough body play scene for next weekend, when V and I head to Columbus for Winter Wickedness. After playing last night, I wondered briefly if he had read the exchange in the chat group, and if that had informed the direction he took things, but then I realized that, knowing him and how much he loves that kind of play, our discussion probably had nothing to do with it.

He just wanted to punch me.

Both times we’ve played this way it’s started without any forewarning. One minute we’re sitting on the couch, cuddling, talking; the next he is hitting me, punching me in the thigh or arm or ass. And then it’s on. Because in both instances, it quickly rolled into wrestling, wriggling, Jade-trying-escape-while-V-punches-various-body-parts play.

Spoiler: Jade doesn’t get away. Jade gets punched. Jade has bruises the next day, and delicious little tender spots all over that she pokes repeatedly at throughout her day.

What’s interesting to me about this kind of play is that I had craved it with my previous partners, but few of them engaged in it fully enough for me to feel it was genuine. I always felt they were, well, pulling their punches. Because I am…female? …of small stature? …loved?  W was very good at mauling me, at grabbing me and treating my body like meat, but actual hitting or punching were close to limits for him. I have met many Tops that feel similarly: using an implement is fine, but actually hitting their partner? Much less, punching them? That goes a step (or a leap) beyond their comfort zone. There is something that reeks of abuse, of the potential for lost control, of violence

And that is probably why it fascinates me so. Why it twists my insides with excitement and fear and…heat.

This is an intriguing step in my kink “development.” When I first stepped into this world, I needed to feel that every action was made with absolute control – loss of control by the Top, perceived or otherwise, was a trigger for me. I still get hot in scenes in which every move is made with precision, with a cold calculation, with the utmost control by the Top, but I have found myself excited by this kind of play, play that is free-ranging and fluid, less structured, less controlled, as well.  While I thoroughly enjoyed my “Watermelon is the New Red” scene (Part One and Part Two), it never got me hot. I didn’t want to rip off anyone’s clothes and fuck like a wild animal after. After tussling with V, all I want to do is either 1) climb in his lap and let him pet me and love me; or 2) tear his clothes off and ride him till he’s spent. Or some combination there-of.

A good, rousing wrestling and beat-down also gets my blood pumping.

This night, after he had pummeled me into submission, I got both: I curled into his lap and nuzzled his neck, feeling that peaceful, hazy state of submission and bliss that I crave like a drug, before realizing how aroused I was and started to grind myself against him. I really wanted his cock in me, or at least his fingers –

No, no, it had to be his cock. I hadn’t had any in awhile, and I had had two non-fruitful masturbation sessions earlier that day and the night before. I wanted his cock. I didn’t get it, though, instead he told me I had permission to come humping his leg – and god help me, as humiliating as that is, I did.

Perhaps because it is humiliating.

I came again, later, as we lay curled on the couch and he twisted and pulled on my nipple. I hadn’t thought I would, but the line from my tit to my cunt apparently still exists, and soon I was panting and gasping into his neck. It was only the next morning that I realized that, contrary to what I had worried about when I couldn’t orgasm (“Maybe I’ll never come again until I’m off this stupid anti-depressant!”), I could, indeed come – I just needed the right encouragement. I need dominance.

I still didn’t get his cock though, and I find myself peeved about that. I got to feel his cock as we lay in bed, to stroke it and feel its thickness, its tumescence, its heat. I got to take him in my mouth and feel his hands on either side of my head the way he does, he fingers splayed around my jaw, guiding me, forcing me. God I love sucking that man’s cock. I love the feel of his excitement, I love knowing the moment he goes from mere pleasure to need, the need to come, to shove into my mouth and spend himself down my throat. I love when his body jerks and a moan escapes his lips. I love knowing I did that to him; for him.

But damn how I want him to fuck me.


As an aside: I went back and read my Watermelon scenes. I was curious if I could read them. This is the first time that I have been able to read of any of W’s and my scenes. Maybe because this wan’t our scene, because it really was mine, that made it easier. I dunno, but the scene was a good one. If you haven’t yet, go and read it. :-)

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