I haven’t told Erica this yet, but I hate scenes like ours last Saturday. At least I do before they start. For me, my job as a top is to fulfill my bottom, giving her exactly what she needs, taking her to places she craves to go. That’s why each of my private scenes begin a few days prior with the question from me: What do you need?
I take time to organize the scene in my mind. What implements will I use? How will the scene play out? What mind-fuckery will I incorporate, if any. In past blog posts I’ve likened this to a script or symphony, with room for improvisation along the way. So when Thursday rolled around last week and Erica said she had nothing in mind, that she was ready to go with whatever I had to bring, I was at a loss. Certainly, I was eager to play. It has been almost two months. I needed this. But a blank slate, a clean sheet? Notsomuch.
I was feeling a bit anxious by the time the four of us (my wife, Erica, J her boyfriend and myself) got to the Lair. I had no real “inspiration” for the scene. I was, as I’ve said, itching to play, but I didn’t know where to go with it. My bag was over laden with options because I didn’t have a specific plan: floggers, canes, nasty things, blades, paddles, straps—they all were there. I even threw in clothespins, a blindfold and my notorious peppermint oil. It was a kitchen sink of play equipment.
As we usually do, we found ourselves in the kitchen off the room where Erica and I like to play. There’s always a platter of home-baked cookies and a selection of candy. I love the Reece’s Pieces, so I stand by the bowl and grab a few, popping them into my mouth one-by-one as we talk, people watch and catch up with other denizens of the Lair.
Something came over me and I took two of the brown and orange candies and I offered them to Erica, to be nice. She politely declined. I looked her in the eye, feeling toppy, and said, “Eat them.” “No,” she replied, firmly. I didn’t break my gaze: “Eat them,” I said, lowering my voice an octave. She refused. At this point, J was looking at me with a bit of alarm on his face. I dropped the subject, thinking he might intervene, and went to my cache of implements and dropped the candies in a safe and clean spot there.
Later, as our scene played out, I knew I’d use those candies to push Erica. She was laid out on the padded table, naked, our scene well into an intense but not dark session, over an hour in at that point, when I grabbed the candies and proffered them to her, foisting them in her face. “Are you ready to eat them now?” The first time I asked, she gave a resounding negative. The second time, after a few flurries of blows to the buttocks, she told me to fuck off. The third time, she offered a more demure, “No.”
Each time, I would intensify my barrage on her backside, letting her know nonverbally that her response was what was driving the action forward in the way it was. I told her that her responses were causing her scene to turn out the way it was, not me. I launched into a rather unyielding and intense sequence, Erica crying out a few times. Once again, I asked her if she was ready to eat the diminutive candies. “No, thank you,” she responded this time. Ah! She was caving! Good!
I intensified my assault, but then was compassionate and cared to her sweet spots, made raw by my forceful caning and strapping. “See?” I said, “This is what happens when you aren’t so rude.” Or something like that. It’s been almost a week now, so excuse me for not remembering the exact words. Again with the hand, hard and rapid.
I grabbed the candies again: “Erica, I want you to eat these now,” I said. She was panting, in tears. “Okay,” she said, her face pressed into the furry, soft blanket I always lay down on the cold vinyl of the table. I get down so my face is next to hers and without a pause, I popped them into my mouth, noisily munching them open-mouthed in her ear. “Whaaaa…?” she muttered and burst out laughing. “Do you think I’d make you eat those?” I said. “What horrible thing to do! I wouldn’t make you do that!” Erica burst into a fresh set of tears and we proceeded to the “finale,” my word for the final assault, typically with my leather paddle so thick it looks (and feels!) like wood. To show her my appreciation for her offering to eat the treats, I spanked her hard, very hard, with my hand instead.
But I wasn’t done with the mind-fuckery. Oh, no. At the end, I asked her to tell me how many spanks I had given her, because when I use the paddle she counts. She always counts. “I don’t know!” she exclaimed in anguish. “You didn’t tell me to count!” I reminded her finales always have counts. When she guessed wrong to the number (it was 31) I told her she was lucky, but now she’d have to endure an additional punishment—this time with the dreaded paddle. But she was still a good girl, having offered to eat the Reece’s Pieces, so I only gave her five, tissue-compressing, bone-jarring full-swing smacks of the paddle.
Afterward, we talked about those silly candies and my insistence on her eating them. “I didn’t want you to actually eat them,” I said. “I just wanted you to give in.” We both agreed it ended up being a pretty decent way to structure a scene at the spur of the moment. “I wouldn’t’ve done that if I thought it would have been a genuine issue with you, Erica,” I said. She acknowledged that with many she would have remained stubborn just because she’s no true subby, but that she did it to show how much she trusted me.
In the end, a great scene. What started out as a blank slate ended up being not only a good physical and mental session, but one in which our trust and respect for one another were displayed to each.