Count. Breathe. These are his words. Words which I so desperately want to follow. His hand, warm, firm on my soft belly. I hear the tick tick of the kitchen timer and sometimes, his voice telling to count, to breathe, to settle my soul.
I asked for this challenge – well, not this PARTICULAR challenge, but I asked to BE challenged. This was His design. My nipples are ridiculously sensitive and so He chose a true challenge. Clothespins. For fifteen minutes. Fifteen. Full. Minutes.
I must keep my eyes closed.
I must not move.
I must not speak (except, of course, for a safeword!)
I must not moan.
I must embrace the sensation, breath through the pain to find the pleasure.
I must breathe only through my nose – my mouth must remain closed. If I open it, he will fill it with a gag, which he doesn’t want to do. He wants the only sensations I feel to be his hand on my belly and the harsh, tight clothespins.
I asked for this. I will meet his challenge. I will ignore the tear I cannot stop from escaping and forging a watery path down my face. I will make him, and more importantly, myself proud.
I will breathe. I will count. I will find the light of pleasure within the darkness of the pain.
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