Sa’afia wasn’t just a dolly who’d do whatever she’s told. She was a submissive woman. She did things that she liked, that turned her on.
She stood up for herself, even when she knelt. Or bent over to be spanked or fucked, knowing that she wouldn’t choose which happened. But that was something she wanted. I provided it for her.
When it’s moving right, bdsm connects the people involved with incredible intensity and intimacy.
It’s a sententious thing to say, but bdsm is the opposite of violence.
When I said Sa’afia hit me, I was trying to make two points. Both of which were true. The first was that Sa’afia was hurt when I asked her a question about Ana, while we two were in the middle of doing something very intense and sexually powerful. I’d re-awoken her worry that I was with her for reasons that weren’t about her.
I’d got her to suspend disbelief on one of her worries, which was that I might be interested in her because she was Samoan. There were white boys who went after Samoan girls, because they thought they were easy, or they had a fetish-y thing for them, or whatever. She wanted always to be certain that I liked and desired the individual she was: Sa’afia.
She was right to give me the benefit of the doubt on that one. I do and think lots of dodgy things, but I’ve never found that I get turned on, or turned off, a woman because of her race. Once we were lovers, then I liked the brown of her skin and the shape of her nose, slightly broad and slightly snub, and I loved the firmness of her flesh and the strength of her body. I loved a lot of things, some of which were Samoan things.
Actually, there was something I really liked about her nipples, but I’ll save that for tomorrow.
Sa’afia froze. Immobility is not affectionate. Then she hit my shoulder, hard, with her fist. She said, “you’re with me. Can’t you forget about fucking Ana for a fucking second?”
There’ll be more later today. But I’m out of time. Sorry.
Update: I’m still out of time. For now. Here’s a pic.
We lay together in Sa’afia’s bed. Sa’afia lay mostly on top of me, her legs straddling my right thigh. I’d rested my hand, in affection and something like ownership, on her bottom, cupping her and savouring the residual warmth and two hotter welts raised by the rod.
She’d stood, taken my hand and led me here and complained gravely that I was overdressed. I’d taken my clothes off, lain down and pulled her on top of me. For a while we were equals, in an affectionate fog.
`The rod was at the foot of the bed. Sa’afia had carried it with us, not because I’d told her to – I hadn’t – and she’d placed it within reach. It exuded promise and power. But for now we wanted to cuddle.
Sa’afia was telling me about her childhood, some of it spent in Los Angeles and some spent in Samoa. She’d been born in American Samoa, but her family home had been in the State of Samoa, in a village near Taga on Samoa’s second main island, Savai’i. This didn’t mean much to me at the time. I’d never been to any of the Polynesian islands. I took her word for it that it was a beautiful place.
Stupidly, I imagined some Gauguin-flavoured fantasy with a river pool and lots of girls naked as Sa’afia, washing their hair in the water and singing traditional songs. I had no idea what traditional songs would sound like. I imagined something wild and fluid, like a mermaid might sing in a movie. I hoped they’d sing to me.
But talk about family reminded me me of a duty. I said, “So Ana’s father. Does he live in Samoa, or does he live here? In LA?”
Sa’afia stayed on her knees, still working my cock when there was no more come, cleaning me and keeping my cock as firm as I could be, after coming into that comfortable, clinging place.
Sa’afia sucked and licked for about twenty minutes, while I slowly, pleasurably softened. Finally, though my cock was still a little fat and complacent, it lolled out of her mouth.
I leaned down and, my hands still in her hair, tilted her face up so she looked at me. Sa’afia wanted to please me, and she’d wanted to see if she could drive me, for a while, out of my own control.
She was smiling, and there was no doubt or need for reassurance in her face.
I kissed her forehead and the broad tip of her nose. I said, “I think – ” Then I said, “I don’t think anyone has ever – ” Then I kissed her again, and said “I’m keeping you.”
I didn’t really make any decisions. I’d assumed that I was going to break off and do other things before I came. I’d thought that while I striped her ass with that rod I’d stand where she could turn her head and watch my erection, and then feel it inside her, when her skin was still hot and hurting and I fucked her.
But then I felt the urgency of that sensation at the base of my spine, or somewhere deeper, made up of sugar and need. I dropped the rod and put both hands on Sa’afia’s head. The rod bounced and rebounded on the hard floor, but I’d forgotten it while it was still making its racket. I was supposed to growl something at her, threatening to punish her if she didn’t swallow every drop. But that had never been something that I really cared about, and anyway I didn’t have time.
Instead, looking down on the black shine of Sa’afia’s hair and the warm brown of her shoulders, my eyes wide as a cat’s at twilight, I made incoherent noises, gutteral at first but higher pitched with the rush into Sa’afia’s mouth.
Sa’afia coughed once, and then swallowed and kept swallowing.
I said, “good girl good girl good girl good girl,” over and over, while my body took over. I came in my Sa’afia. My? Well, perhaps she was.
I was laughing, towards the end, because of happiness, pleasure and awareness of how ridiculous we were, but mainly me. I mostly enjoy being ridiculous.
Can’t say I like many porn images of face-slapping. They’re not affectionate, and they creep me out. But lions are sexy beasts.
At the time smacking Sa’afia’s face was still pretty shocking. In the last few years there’s been a fashion for hard face-slapping. It’s an internet thing, and the internet doesn’t come with a notice about not trying that at home.
I know that a lot of submissive women have tried being slapped, and some of them like it a lot. But I’ve never been able to bring myself to go beyond a firm-but-not-very-hard slap, plus some theatre to make it seem harsher than it is.
I said, into Sa’afia’s shocked silence, “You please me very much. I want you always to know that.”
The odd thing about this conversation, which maybe seems a bit lovey-dovey on the screen, is that my cock didn’t soften at all. I’m sure Sa’afia stayed wet, and that she dropped another two floors below the basement, further into submission about a second after the slap.
I pushed back into her mouth, as deep as I could go, my pelvic bone to her lips. When she started to cough I stayed for a couple of seconds before withdrawing. I gave her a second to recover, but no more. I started to move, not too deeply but hard, before she’d completely calmed.
Before the slap I’d let her set the pace but now I took the lead, fucking her mouth, holding her head by that handful of her hair.
She wanted to be taken hard now, out of her control. And out of my control, up to a point. How did I know that? Well, desire ruled both of us, and we knew that. I’d had a different set of plans when we’d started, but I was going to come in her mouth. And soon.
Sa’afia made a noise. Something with both growling and squealing in it. Then she put up her hand. “Armission a heak?”
I said, “All right. Oh.” I withdrew my cock so it bobbed about just inside her mouth.
“Thank you.” Her lips touched me when she spoke. I liked that.
I said, “In fact, we’ll change the rules for a bit. You can speak when you want to, from now until I say otherwise.”
She nodded. “Thank you. You said you liked hurting me.”
“Well, only in certain ways -“
“You don’t need to be defensive. I mean, you don’t. I just wanted to reply. Because I love it when you hurt me. You know, the number of times I’ve said that to anyone is … zero. I love you hurting me, and that must make me just as weird as you are. Do you know what I like best about you hurting me?”
I frowned. “Well, I don’t know. Um, you get an adrenalin rush, and that intensifies what you’re feeling, so that makes it sexier? Um.”
“Darling, at least I know something about neurochemistry. You shouldn’t even try. No, what I love best, sir, is how much you love it. And that you think you’re being terribly wicked, and – Well, you love that. You really love it; it’s like … glee. And I love pleasing you. That’s what makes me what I am, doesn’t it?”
“I’m glad you are what you are.”
“Well, so am I. Now. Not before, but now. And I’m really glad that you don’t leave me in any doubt about whether I please you.”
“Mmmmm.” There was history to that last remark. Someone had left her in doubt. Probably the same lover who’d been so lukewarm about having her mouth on his cock.
I stroked Sa’afia’s mouth and ear, and then smacked her cheek.
The sort of thing my mother would have said, if she’d been into bdsm, is that if you can’t think of something sexy to say then it’s better to just say nothing at all. And that it’s mostly a good idea for a dom to say the thing the submissive will be pleased to hear. I’d add: as long as you think you can carry it off.
So I said, “I’m going to beat you, Sa’afia.” I left a pause because I thought she’d like to think about sucking the cock of a man who proposed to apply a wooden stick to her bottom, making it hard enough to hurt her. Hurt her even though she was being as submissive as she knew how to be.
I added, “but don’t you dare stop when the stick lands on your ass, girl. Or bite.” I swung the rod down at the left side of her buttocks, then the right. I watched her waggle, shaking off pain like a dog shakes off water, and the two new welts form: first white, then raised, then dark. Safe? Of course I was. She opens her mouth when the rod lands.
I’m afraid those stripes excited me. I had to resist the urge to push my cock deeper into Sa’aphia’s mouth when she gasped. She could only take my cock deeply for a second or two, and that only with warning and preparation. This isn’t cock pride: this isn’t even a Led Zep song. Sa’afia was a novice at fellatio, that’s all.
I looked down at Sa’aphia, marvelling at her. I knew some of her thoughts and feelings, but never everything. I asked her a question I knew the answer to. “Does that hurt, girl?”
Sa’afia made a happy noise, her mouth impeded. She looked up at me, without interrupting the movement of her head, or her lips.
I guessed whatever she’d tried to say was affirmative. So I said, “Good. So it should.”
Sa’afia looked down again, to focus on my cock.
My guess was that just then she was telling herself that she was at the mercy of a man who liked hurting her. And that she was excited by that idea, which was perfectly compatible with the fact that it was only partly true.
I tightened my grip on the handful of her hair that I’d been holding. I’d let her choose a comfortable depth for my cock, and I didn’t want to push her into choking. Instead I pulled back a little, so she had to pull her own hair when she bobbed her head forward.
I decided that my guess about her thoughts was close enough to be true, and that Sa’afia shouldn’t have to guess about mine. I let go of her hair and stroked her face again. “And yes, beautiful girl, wonder girl, of course I love hurting you.”
Sa’afia was at my feet, naked where I was clothed, though it was only her mouth that covered my cock. Her buttocks and hips burned a little, I hoped, from the smacks I’d given her with the rod. Her bottom still wore two raised welts, and waggled slightly while she worked on my cock. I was happy, but never mind me: I knew beyond any doubt that she was supremely happy.
She wasn’t allowed to speak, but she broke that rule whenever she felt like it. The threat of getting a smack across her arse wasn’t exactly terrifying her. She’d discovered that even quite a hard impact was a strong and sexy thing, and she was pleased to provoke me into giving her more. But when bdsm works you don’t need speech. There’s a kind of body-reading that comes close to mind-reading, and we knew what we felt, without words.
There’s a joke about a starlet who goes to a Hollywood agent and begs for a bit part in Flying Crocodiles of New York III. He says, “cherrypie, the script has only three girls in it who run around with their tits out and get chomped by the crocs. And those parts have been filled.”
Flying Crocodiles of New York III: Amazing special effects!
She says, “then I could just run around with my tits out anyway, sort of in the background.”
“Meh.”
“And by the way my tits are very nice, and if you put me in the movie then you could come between my tits or in my mouth. In fact, put me in the movie and I’ll suck your cock right now.”
The agent looks puzzled. “Yeah, but what’s in it for me?”
I mention that because when Sa’afia was sucking and licking my cock, I felt something pretty close to that ludicrous arrogance. I loved the sight of her, and I loved the soft paradise she’d taken my cock into, but above all, I felt proud that I’d put Sa’afia in a place she liked, that she’d wanted to be in and not found before.
She loved her submissive position, the fact that her ass burned, and that she was pleasuring the man who’d welted her. I watched her and watched over her, and thought about ways to increase her feeling of submission. She served my cock, just then, but I was at her service.