Before and afterglow
I’ve just realised how desperately unsexy this blog’s been of late. You’d almost think I wasn’t having the hottest sex of my life ever ever times infinity plus one. There I go with the smug boasting again, but that’s the truth of it. My life is *such* a chore.
The problem with having all the sex, however, is that my already practically unmanageable sex drive rockets when I’m getting a little something something. Add a dash of menstrual crazy-making hormones to the mix, plus an overnight stay in my parents’, and my poor long-suffering (and probably a bit sore) boyfriend had an insatiable minx on his hands last weekend.
A whole two days and one night beside him but unable to have him sent me a bit bonkers. I was sassy, cheeky, bratty, overly flirtatious and grabby, and positively mean at one point. Normally, I’d get as far as cheeky before being put firmly in my place, but with my parents and half the extended family present, I ran riot, unchecked.
And so it was in this state — exultant from getting away with such flagrant boldness, but horny as a very horny thing — that we returned to Dublin. He was shattered, I was practically vibrating with lust. Obliging chap that he is, he didn’t leave me waiting… though that would have been due punishment for my brattish behaviour.
Afterward… I was worse. How is that possible? Fucked if I know. But I was practically eating my pillow in desperation. Every tiny move of his body beside me in bed had me swooning and squirming and salivating.
“What does the pet want?” he enquired, half bemused and half evilly.
“I dunnooooooo”, I whined, pouting into my pillow, while furtively peeking at him in his boxers across the room. I did know, though. I wanted to devour him, every little bit of him, and the bigger bits too. I wanted to rip him open and climb inside him. Half lust, half love, I was overwhelmed with pure want for him. Just that, nothing else. Him.
That would have just been silly, though… I’d have no boyfriend left. Not to mention impossible. So instead I got the spanking of my life. I don’t remember too much about it, except for squinting in the dim light of my room and mumbling afterward, “who needs drugs when you can just get spanked?” He chortled and pointed out that not everyone is such a willing spankee.
Next morning though, he was in unusually great form. Giddy, silly, energised. “I feel all happy”, says he, “like the way you’d feel after you just got laid for the first time in ages.”
“Darling”, I chortled, “you get laid all the time.” He agreed that the analogy made no sense, spoiled thing that he is.
“Maybe it’s a dom-liness hangover,” I pondered. “We haven’t played rough like that in a long time…”
“More like an afterglow than a hangover. And we’ve never played *that* rough before. But… you might be onto something there.” I squirmed in my seat in agreement. Ouch.
The moral of the story? It’s not just the spankee who gets the endorphin buzz. But it is just the spankee whose arse still hurts two days later.
Filed under: musings, sexy | 2 Comments