09 May 2009


He is stretched beneath me, making small pleading noises behind the black leather mask. It covers his eyes and nose, but I've left the gag out for this first playdate. I want to ensure he's able to call safe, and I'm just on the edge enough to consider pushing him into doing so. 

He is plugged, and his body is quite lovely beneath me as I straddle him. I can feel the buzzing of the plug through his thighs and against my own skin as he whimpers and squirms. It's cute, and I tell him so. My voice is sticky-sweet, as I inquire after his well-being. 
He grits his teeth, but responds properly, "I'm fine, Miss."
"Oh, good," I coo, and begin. 

He doesn't like sharp pain, he told me. Most toys are a sharper pain than he likes, and he doesn't like toys in general. I listened, nodding, smiling inside as he tries to tie my hands and prevent me from hurting him as I want to.
Poor, deluded boy. He's obviously never played with someone who has struggled through months of physical therapy, or trained in massage. 

I tell him that I'm going to do him a favor, going to release some trigger points. I do my physical therapist's favorite trick of skin rolling... rolling his skin beneath my fingers and looking for redness which indicates a trigger point. 
And when I find them, I dig my fingers beneath them and press until I feel them release. It's almost like finding a ridge in the sheet of muscle, and ironing it out with your fingers.
It hurts like a sonuvabitch.
My physical therapist is nicer about it, but I don't feel like being nice tonight. I find easily a dozen, digging in while his face contorts in agony beneath the mask. It's beautiful, and I'm dripping above him.

I show him my favorite trick of Lucivar's, pressing my knuckles into his breastbone and twisting back and forth. His head snaps back and forth in agony, wanting to fight my hands but unable to. I know this pain, have felt it myself from Lucivar's hands. It feels like bruising the very bone, and it is. I lean down, whisper to the boy that isn't he lucky I'm creative enough to play without the toys he dislikes? He grunts, and I giggle. 

I whisper to him that this won't leave a single mark, but that he'll feel it for days. I tap his sore chest, hard, one last time and tell him that it will be something to remember me by.

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