“What do you want to do next?” asked the Edge, after fucking me a little, just to take the – ahem – edge off.‎

“Slap me,” I cried eagerly.

“Already?” he asked.

I suppose it may seem odd that, of all the exciting, crazy things we had discussed in the six weeks we’d been apart, I should so urgently wish for this one, but there was something about the image of me kneeling naked on the floor before him, clutching my ankles, with my tear-stained face turned up to him willingly… well, it both alarmed and intrigued me. How much, how much could I take?

And yet, that first slap, with both of us still seated on the bed, took me completely off-guard, and was followed rapidly by another, and another. I was shocked by the impact! These were not the stinging slaps I had expected, but violent blows to my unprotected visage! I couldn’t help but protest, and then I felt ashamed when he reminded me that I had asked for this. And I also thought of his “ode to the marks, bruises and pain” which I would take home with me that night: he had sent it to me the night before, with instructions not to read it until that morning. Oh, you can imagine how titillated I was when I read it, how filled with delicious fear when I set out that morning! So now how could I let the side down?

“Lie down,” ordered the Edge. I did it trembling, begging him not to hurt me too much, or at least not to do any permanent damage! He straddled me, pinning down my shoulders with his knees. I closed my eyes, I knew what was coming. But, in a way, it was easier like this – I didn’t have to steel myself for the blows, I just had to endure it.‎

“Did you like that?” he asked, when he had finished.

“I don’t know,” I said, dully, lying motionless beneath him, and then, flinching as he raised his hand to hit me again: “Yes – yes, I liked it!”

“Good. Because that was just a little practice session to get you ready for what’s yet to come. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Why are you trembling? Is it fear, or excitement? Or both?”

“I don’t know.”

He hit me again on the side of my face. “That’s for not knowing.”‎

“Both,” I answered quickly, almost in tears. “Both.”

“Do you want me to fuck you now?”

“Yes, please!”

He fucked me in missionary until I was smiling again, then, grabbing my panties where they lay discarded on the bed, he rolled them into a ball and stuffed them into my cunt, turned me around, forced my head and shoulders down into the bed and fucked me up the arse, making me lick him clean afterwards. (OMG, all those hot things casually thrown together in just one sentence! But that’s the kind of meeting this was!)

“What do you want next?” he asked.‎

“How about the mints?” I asked, referring to his promise to make me come with his mouth while sucking a breath-mint. What could possibly have gotten into me? I am, after all, a renowned denouncer of this practice, which normally strikes me as an unnatural reversal of my usual submissive role, but with the Edge it is different – because I know that he can make me come in this way, it makes me feel even more submissive towards him to give him this intimate control of my body. Obligingly, then, he removed my balled-up panties from inside my cunt and slid my new butt-plug into my ass instead, tugging at it gently while he licked me and blew mintily across my pussy.

“Oh, can I come?” I asked breathlessly.

“Count backwards from 20,” he told me, and then, after I had finished and the spasms had died down, he kissed me, passing me the mint in his mouth, and asked me to return the favour. I jumped up happily, crouching before him as I sucked and licked his cock and balls and rimmed him a little. Then he pulled me up beside him, and started playing with my cunt as we talked. I began to feel more and more aroused, arching my back a little as his fingers seemed to be sending electric currents through my body! He pushed me onto a pillow so my hips were raised up to meet his, and penetrated me. Oh, I barely had time to ask for permission to come! I could feel my pussy clamping down onto his cock as I gripped him in a paroxysm of ecstasy. He waited for my muscles to relax before flipping me over and pounding into my pussy from behind, pushing my head and shoulders down into the pillow as he had done before. It wasn’t long before he had pumped me full of come and he collapsed on top of me, laughing.

“What’s so funny?” I asked nervously, eyeing a couple of drops of come which had spilled on the bed, and wondering if I could discreetly lap them up without asking him to move.‎

“Nothing,” he told me. “I’m just happy.”

Now the next part is totally nuts. We were lying side by side in bed, talking, while he stroked and caressed my wet pussy, gradually bringing me closer and closer to orgasm, but when I asked if I could come, he said, “No.” Oh! I was on the edge, trembling, concentrating all my efforts on not coming, while he continued to stroke my pussy, ever so gently, keeping me there! Of course, I have often read of such things, but I never thought I could experience it for myself. “Because you’re a slave to your orgasm,” says the Edge. Well, maybe a little, but you know, despite all my talk of coming, I still see it as something very elusive! Perhaps because for many years I was unable to come at all, and then only from oral sex (yes!). Even now, I am never really sure it is going to happen, and where’s the fun in controlling an orgasm which is only vaguely looming on the horizon? But now, a combination of several factors – my relaxed state, the long afternoon stretching before us, and perhaps the gentle teasing manner in which he had brought me to this point – meant that this orgasm was no longer on the horizon, but right at the door! And my body craved for the delicious sweetness of release…

“Please, let me come…” I murmured.

“No,” he said, his fingers still stroking the swollen lips of my pussy, always just barely avoiding my aching clitoris.

“Please, the Edge,” I repeated helplessly, like an automaton. “Please let me come… please, please let me come… please, the Edge, please let me come… please, please let me come…”‎

“What’s it worth to you?”



I knew I should think of something to offer him, perhaps something demeaning, some new way I could debase myself for him, but I couldn’t think any more, all I could do was plead with him to let me come. In fact, I was so focused on begging him to let me come that I almost didn’t notice when he said “go ahead”! And, oh! it was so strange, for a few moments it was as though I was still stuck at that point just before coming, as though the mental dam I had built was too sturdy to be so summarily swept away! And when this long-awaited orgasm finally came, it was not the tidal wave one might have expected, but a sort of spluttering, almost strangulated burst of pleasure. Still, it left me gasping and writhing in his arms. He held me close, and then, after the spasms had subsided, he began to run his hands over my skin. I moaned with delight, it felt so good. He cupped my breasts with his hands, rubbing gently against my nipples. All of a sudden my muscles tensed, and I felt a wave of contractions beginning in my pussy and spreading over my entire body. I held him tightly, rigid, shuddering, caught in the throes of another orgasm! Or had it just somehow spilled over from the one before?

“What’s so funny?” he demanded.‎

“Oh, nothing,” I gasped. “I’m just happy.”

My body awash with endorphins, I climbed up on to him, straddling him, feeling the warmth of his genitals against my flushed pussy and looking at him with love as we spoke.

“So, are you going to tell me what kind of men you want me to invite over to fuck you for your birthday?” he asked me.

“You mean what kind of men I definitely don’t want you to invite,” I corrected him.‎

“Same thing,” he said. “Now tell me.”

I opened my mouth, but, even in my dazed, post-orgasmic condition, I couldn’t bring myself to tell him this.

“You will tell me soon enough,” he predicted, rolling me off him and reaching down for my pussy. Within seconds, it seemed, he had me writhing at his fingertips again!

“Oh God,” I cried, my body convulsing. “Fist me, fist me!”

Those of you who’ve been following my sex life in minute detail will surely recall the first and only time I’d ever been fisted – something which had always sounded horribly and painfully unappealing to me until that moment, where I felt I’d died and gone to heaven!! Imagine, if you will, lying in a state of post-orgasmic bliss, and then someone coming along and turning up the volume, from 3 to about 10! Well, that’s how it was, that first time! So, naturally, I longed to do it again, but it isn’t something which can just happen – how loose do you think I am down there, after all? But this time, I knew that the moment was right!‎

“Wow,” remarked the Edge, once my screams had subsided. “If your normal orgasms are like an earthquake, then that was like a tsunami.”

“Oh, stop,” I said shakily as I turned away from him, quivering like jelly. “I can’t come any more – that’s it for the day!”

He just laughed sadistically and didn’t care at all, dragging me from the bed and making me kneel on the floor before him, ordering me to hold my ankles and turn my face up towards him. Oh, I was frightened, but eager to impress him! And I also felt as though I were in some other dimension, where nothing could hurt or affect me any more. He grabbed hold of my hair to keep my head still and began to slap me. I just closed my eyes and let him do it for as long as he wanted. I didn’t open my eyes again until he’d stopped.

“You still have not cried,” he murmured, stroking my inflamed cheeks.

“Is that what you want?” I whispered. “To make me cry?”

“I’m not sure I do,” he said thoughtfully. I felt reassured by this, because much as I might like to see what it would take to get me to cry, to break down my emotional restraint, my rigid, overriding pride – I never cry, even alone – how much would I really want to be around someone who was constantly attempting to upset me?

I noticed him eyeing my breasts somewhat sadistically. He tugged on one of my nipples to pull the breast out towards him and then slapped me viciously on the side of it. A great spray of milk came shooting out. He slapped me once or twice more and then switched to the other breast. More milk sprayed out into the air. It seemed we both were watching it with surprise. Then he picked up a long leash from the desk and attached it to my collar, stepping back to admire the sight.

“Look what it’s long enough to do,” he said, smacking me sharply across the breasts with it. I squealed in pain, and, looking down, saw with horror what looked like a small bruise beginning to form on my breast from the impact. He pulled me towards him and kissed me, removing the leash and casting it aside. Then he pushed me onto the bed and, parting my legs, bent down to lick my throbbing pussy. Now, by this time, I must confess, I was beginning to feel the effects of the half a bottle of gin which he had poured down my throat earlier, in an effort to make me feel like a cheap whore.

“Did you really fist me, before?” I asked drunkenly.‎

“Yes, I did.”


“Take a picture this time, if you don’t believe me,” he suggested, spreading my pussy open as he began to insert his fingers one by one.

“Oh my God,” I screamed. “Stop! Don’t stop!”

I was vaguely aware of him waving my phone at me with one hand as he did so, but if he thought I was in any state to start attempting photography, he was badly mistaken! It’s hard enough getting my old Blackberry camera into focus at the best of times, let alone completely drunk with someone’s whole hand in my pussy!!‎

Now I don’t know if it was the alcohol, or the intensity of fisting, but my memory of the rest of the afternoon is a little patchy. I remember lying on the bed asking him to beat me with his belt, and then reminding him that he had promised to leave marks. He told me I had a bite mark on my thigh which I didn’t remember receiving! But I do remember being dragged into the shower and forced to kneel and drink his urine, and scrabble for loose change on the wet shower floor! OK, maybe “forced” is a bit of an exaggeration, or even an outright lie. I also remember eventually confessing which kind of man he definitely, decidedly should not invite to fuck me on my birthday. Unless he wants to totally humiliate me, of course…

“Will you write about today?” he asked me, when we parted.

“I will,” I assured him. “I just need some time to return to my senses.”

“I hope you never return to your senses,” he smiled, as he kissed me goodbye.‎


6 thoughts on “Turn and Face the Strange

  1. “He fucked me in missionary until I was smiling again, then, grabbing my panties where they lay discarded on the bed, he rolled them into a ball and stuffed them into my cunt, turned me around, forced my head and shoulders down into the bed and fucked me up the arse, making me lick him clean afterwards”
    Congratulations on the hottest sentence I have read so far


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