Robbie and I are, as I’ve mentioned, getting rather better at communicating with each other.

For example, when he arrived here he told me practically right away that before the visit was over, he would slap my inner thighs—which he did last Thanksgiving and which resulted in me calling out my safeword and running from the room in tears—and whip my pussy with his belt.

The inner-thigh-slap went off without a hitch the first night. He was deliberate; I could see it coming in his eyes; and, as far as slaps go, they were relatively gentle. These are the kinds of things we do to erase bad moments. (One might call it “retraining”, but I wouldn’t.)

The belt came later, on Thanksgiving Day.

I don’t know how we got started. But I remember lying on the bed, listening to Robbie in my kitchen, putting things away, and feeling my arousal grow. Sometimes I feel there is a cord of connection between us; when one of us feels the love and the excitement, the other does too. It stretches and pulls on both of us.

He came into the bedroom where I was lying and looked at me. We might have exchanged words. But I also pulled my long skirt up to my waist and opened my legs wide. I had been pumping my hips against empty air for several minutes, and my sex felt lustrous and swollen.

He stripped. He went and got his belt. He looked at me; he looks at me so intently, and so dangerously at times, I shiver with the desire I feel radiated back at me. He wrapped the belt in two and he hit the sole of my right foot with it, twice. It hurt more than I expected it to.

He looked at my cunt. “You know, when you felt the belt, your cunt just opened another quarter of an inch and pussy juice gushed out.”

“Mmm-hmm,” I murmured.

Standing next to me as I was stretchd out along the bed, he moved up my body, bringing the belt to my breasts. I was lying on my hands, restraining myself, still with my legs butterflied out. He hit both breasts just once. I moaned and looked down; the nipples were tight berries of arousal. “It’s so awful,” I said.

“What is so awful?”

“You want to deny you like it, but your body betrays you. Traitor body. I’ve read other people talk about this but I never felt it so much until now.”

He shrugged and gave an “Oh dear, your life is sooooo terrible”, sardonic twist of his mouth. Then he beat my breasts again, several times each, hard.

By the time he got to my pussy, I was so turned on I was about to come. He cracked the belt down hard on my thighs and then twice, right on my clit. I was still on the brink of orgasm. “Do you want more?” he asked. I was confused; I definitely wanted more. He clarified. “Do you want to come first and then have more? Or do you want more now?”

“More now.”

Crack. Crack. Crack. I came. The belt cracked down maybe half a dozen more times—I would have relished twice as much as he gave me, but being greedy is no good. I came twice more. He put the belt aside and began to fuck me, slowly, intently, looking directly into my eyes. I came once, shuddering into him tenderly. I came again, harder, weeping with the joy and release and pleasure of it. I bucked up against him, feeling him drive against my g-spot, and I came a third time. As he was sliding his body against mine like a dolphin, dipping and diving into me and cresting out, another orgasm took me, and as he was jackhammering into me from above, I had what seemed like a fifth orgasm.

He rolled off me. We took a break and talked.

“And the worst thing is I still have a bagfull of come here.”

“I think that’s a pretty good thing. It means I can suck it out later.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“How does it feel to know you fucked your woman to four or five orgasms?”

“How many of those were while you were having your pussy whipped?”

“Oh, none of them. Those were all from you fucking me just now. Counting the pussy whipping orgasms—well, that’s two or three more.”

“I wanted to beat your feet more,” he said, in his cheerfully-confessional post-coital voice. “But your feet were turned the wrong way, with the tops up, and you can beat the bottoms as much as you like, but you don’t hit the tops.”

I started laughing uncontrollably. I was a little cheerfully post-coital myself.

“What? What is it?” he said, puzzled.

“That’s what they say when you go to BDSM conferences, apparently. You know, ‘Beat the Bottoms as much as you like, but just don’t hit the Tops!’”

He rolled his eyes and pulled me in for a hug. And I giggled into his shoulder, ridiculously, until the happiness and delight had burbled out of me long enough for us to have a snack and that promised rematch.

(To be continued, at his request.)