I had lain back, and, with her wrists and ankles free, Sa’afia unbound, she’d licked and sucked at my cock. Sa’afia had begun in a playful mood. She knew she was good at cock-sucking. She’d thought I had nothing to show her, and she could show me things that she knew.
But the emotion wasn’t quite right. So I’d done something I’d never do in non-bdsm sex: I grabbed a handful of her hair and pushed her head down onto my cock, thrusting deep into her throat until I knew she’d be uncomfortable, and held her down until she gagged. Bad sex manners for men.
Then I’d let her part-way up, and, looking her in the eyes, picked up the rod. I’d reached down and given her four new, vertical, stripes on her bottom. She’d gasped, cock still in her mouth, as each one landed. The strokes were unfairly hard.
I’d touched her face with the rod when I’d finished, so she could see that I was going to keep it in my hand while she served me. I’d promised that she’d get the same again each time she gagged. My voice growled at the back of my throat. But if she let my cock slide out of her mouth, I’d added, I’d give her a full dozen. They’d be hard.
Sa’afia had nodded solemnly, with just the head of my cock in her mouth, and dropped her head to return to her task. I stopped pushing her head down, but twisted the handful of her hair as a compensation.
She returned to her task, and I said, “Ah.” Her mouth around my cock was soft, wet paradise, of course, but I also felt an oddly physical satisfaction, which somehow seemed to be located in my stomach muscles, that I’d brought us back to our respective places.
Sa’afia was still doing something she was skilled at, and she was proud of her skill. But though she knew what to do, she was no longer in a familiar place. She glanced up at me and our eyes met. That’s the memory.