If my stage combat teacher knew I encourage improvisation, I think she would kill me. Her advice was always: in a situation where someone might get hurt, never, ever, improvise! There is just one problem: I do not own a flogger.
I need one in my arsenal. I WANT one in my arsenal. But I am far too broke to afford one any time soon. So, what’s a girl to do?
After a long and pleasant walk with Miss Pearl, my House-husband greeted me at the door, naked. He was clearly begging for a scene. Having neglected to cum the previous night, he was in for a beating. I thought that I wanted to use a different hitting implement than my usual ones. This thought stayed with me the entire time I was dishing out his warm up (bare hands, to the beat of the songs that are stuck in my head at the time… unluckily for him, it was ‘Zorba the Greek‘).
As I spanked his buttocks to a healthy pink glow, I thought more than anything about that flogger that I wanted. And then it hit me (pun intended): I had some random stuff in my craft room I could use instead!
Indeed, a few weeks prior, I had purchased a bunch of Dollar Store plants – you know, those artificial, clearly plastic abominations? – for an art project. They did not end up getting used in the end. Among them, there was a bushel of long grass, or reeds, or whatever they are meant to be. In other words, I had a lot of long plastic strands in a bunch (even with a handy handle) that could sting like the devil if used properly.
I was thrilled. I left the House-husband in the position I desired: with a rope around his cock and balls and bent over to stretch his hamstrings (his are frightfully short, so it’s my cruel fun to force him to stretch them). His hands were casually tied behind his back while his ankles were fixed to the legs of our kitchen table. Taking my time, I found my improvised Dollar store “flogger” and tried it on my arms a few times. It was the perfect tool for this broke Dom.
I returned to my House-husband, whose legs were trembling somewhat due to the hamstring stretch, and struck him with the grass. He gasped and gave a jolt, but said nothing to stop me. I kept going, feeling the pleasant twinge of arousal between my own legs with each of his little gasps. I hit him with the long plastic grass until my makeshift flogger fell apart and was no more than stuff for my cats to play with.
Being out of a tool, I grabbed his belt – a heavy thing of square-cut black leather, and folded it over once. I began swinging it against his freely hanging balls and his cock, which, although playing coy, was dripping with pre-cum. And I asked him how many spanks he thought disappointing me last night deserved. He did not immediately reply: I kept hitting his cock with the belt. Finally, he said: “Fifteen.”
“Fifteen?” I asked. “Is that really all that disappointing your Miss is worth to you?”
I hit his cock harder. He gasped out the word “twenty” and I agreed. Leaving his cock alone, I had him count down in French the 20 belt strikes I delivered with swift harshness, with just enough between each stroke for him to cry out.
That done, I lubed up his ass and inserted a prostate massager we had purchased some time ago (when we were still Fetish Weekend attendees). That took him by surprise. The fun part? It is also a vibrator. I had fun using my crotch to grind the toy into his ass, playing with the vibration settings as I did so. The sounds coming out of the man were almost feral.
That done, I brought him to the bedroom and had him lie down on the bed. A few scratches were judiciously applied to his chest and then I sucked his hard, dripping cock. I did so with my usual enthusiasm: I absolutely adore giving fellatio. In fact, one could say I have a bit of an oral fixation. So I took his cock all the way down my throat, wrapping my tongue around it, feeling all the veins with the tip of my tongue…
After a long while of this, I stopped. “You’re allowed to cum, you know? You have to make up for yesterday.”
He looked at me and said, with sorrow in his eyes, that he couldn’t. So I left his cock alone and pulled out my trusty Hitachi massager. I used it on myself in a rather intense masturbation session, forcing him to watch, but not to touch. He tried to be cheeky and touch himself when the thought I was too distracted by orgasm to notice, but I called him out on it. He begged me to let him touch himself or me, but I refused him. After all those disappointments, I needed to get my pleasure elsewhere. The moans of disappointment that escaped him as he watched me take my pleasure were glorious!
But, I am not that cruel a lady that I would let my love sulk without having gotten off. So, after I was done – my cunt still tingling with sensation – and had requested he get dressed, we sat down to watch a television programme. When we were done, he took off his pants, because he was warm (our apartment has no air circulation, it’s awful). I requested that he also remove his underwear.
He did as I requested and I went right back to taking him into my mouth. I also helped along with my hands. When he finally did come, it was a glorious five pump spray that went all the way up to his chin. I then cleaned him up by feeding him his own semen. He was blushing heavily and embarrassed by it, which made me very smug. I think it was a very well-spent evening in spite of all the improvisation and spur of the moment decisions.
Thus, I must conclude; if you are at all gifted with improvisation and know your partner, do it! It is quite rewarding, so long as everything is done safely and within everyone’s limits.