The stripy vest was sitting deep in the corner of the Drawer of Iniquity, under the rope, cable ties, dildos and dog bowls. The Drawer of Iniquity used to be the Drawer of Forgotten Clothing- the cheap shit bulk buys you pick up and throw in your basket on payday and then never, ever wear, or the bobbly yoga pants you keep to wear on sick days but which give you upsetting camel toe. The Drawer of Iniquity’s current contents are more regularly made use of and give vastly more pleasure to all concerned. I’ve literally never worn this, I said, pulling it out of the drawer.
Put it on, he said.
I wriggled into the vest, pulling it down so it showed off my cleavage. His eyes lit up.
Suits you, he said. We kissed. His hands travelled across my midriff, over my breasts, his fingers pinching my nipples. Oh yes, it definitely suits you.
Ten minutes later we were talking about something- I can’t remember what- and he grabbed my cunt hard, so hard that I shouted as he squeezed the fleshy mound firmly in his palm. He did it again, and again. I was laughing, but I hated it. It hurt so much. It never occurred to me to ask him to stop.
He kissed me, and I kissed him back, while he let go of my cunt and then grabbed it again, seizing it and pressing down with the heel of his palm. I kissed him harder, my legs opening, kicking and thrashing, banging my feet against the mattress like an ignored child.
You’re such a little painslut, aren’t you? He laughed as he pushed his cock inside me and I lifted my hips to meet him, angry and grateful. I would never have thought to hear that term applied to me. When I look back I can’t identify the point in time at which I stopped hating him grabbing me; it was and remains intangible. The grabbing was horrible, and then, without my noticing, it was fucking everything. Just thinking about it now I feel a little bit wet and wriggly. It doesn’t make sense, not at all.
Later that night we lay in his bed. He told me to kiss the present he’d made me- a leather strap with copper rivets and my name engraved on it- and then hit my right thigh with it again and again. I hated it. When he fucked me I came so loud he had to ask me to shhh. It seems that whether I like pain or not is immaterial; I mostly don’t enjoy it, but it makes me come like a train.
Before I met him, when I was thinking about what my kinks were or might be, I knew I wanted to be spanked, but in retrospect it was mainly attractive because of the humiliation factor. I didn’t think about the pain. I think it’s a bit like what they say about forgetting the agony of childbirth- it’s difficult to remember pain, but it’s also hard to imagine. You have to feel it to know.