The Time I Made Him Make Me Safeword
By Cara Sutra
The time I made him make me safeword: He had his fingers inside me. It sounds so gorgeously innocent, doesn’t it? So young, almost like the first gentle corruption of a fresh faced virgin. They’re just fingers; sweet, dipping in-and-out fingers.
We were at that stage of testing each others’ mettle. Seeing what our strengths and weaknesses were, if our stated orientations were really true to our nature. Were our ‘labels’ sincere to the core or merely a hopeful cover? You’re not so Dominant… are you? Can I tease, and push, and bend, and manoeuvre? Will you ever submit, or can I keep pushing against you without getting anywhere?
We were testing each other out. Or maybe I was testing and pushing and he knew all along. That does sound more likely. His Dominance is just too sexual and too addictive to deny, after all.
He wanted to fist me. I was excited by the idea, so I said yes. Go on. Try it. He’d been working me so long, pussy and nipples, lips together and hands to throat, that I didn’t even need extra lube. I was slick from the urgent need, from wanting him to just take me in whatever depraved way he wanted, from the excitement of giving myself to him completely.
The thing you need to realise about him is, he’s a sadist. I don’t mean ‘a touch too much sting on an ass smack’ sadist. I mean long, rounded nails, reminiscent of some renaissance vampire, flexing those nails over a cervix sadist. I know. Ouch.
His hand wouldn’t go all the way inside, even when his fingers were bunched tightly into a fist. We tried, me with my thighs desperately trying to clench around him and him using his body on the one side and his other hand over on the other to keep me prised apart like he wanted. He only raised his hand sometimes to pinch my nipples and maul my breasts, clamping his hand over my mouth in-between to muffle the more shrill of my protestations.
I didn’t think anything could be worse than a caning, which is a top pet hate for me as far as corporal punishments go. But when he finally had his hand most of the way inside then casually started to unfurl his fingers… I was remembering the air-whistle and the flesh slicing crack of that thin cane most fondly.
For the purposes of creativity I would like to say I screamed the house down. Due to real life and circumstances, I didn’t. In my head though, I was bellowing throughout the lands via a megaphone from the top of a mountain with the winds carrying my pained cries of destruction to anyone this side of the Atlantic.
Still, I wouldn’t surrender. Not yet.
We had negotiated this activity and agreed beforehand. This session was for pushing me as far as my limits allowed, at my request. Pleading, in fact. I wouldn’t be weak for him, but I would always be honest. That’s the baseline. Pride comes before a breaking. Don’t be too proud to safe out, but don’t safe unless you have to. The delicate balance of a submissive, one which a Top needs to trust a submissive with. Nothing they can do about this factor – this decision rests with the submissive alone.
Running parallel to the flesh stretching, nipple torturing, white pain of the fisting and flexing were these thoughts. So much hurt but could I take more? Yes. Am I sure? Yes. Just a little more. Not too much. What will come first, the safe out or a physical breaking? Would he ever stop if I didn’t safe? Only if he saw I was in a dire situation. This must feel a lot worse than it looks. Right? Perhaps I should safe out now. It hurts SO much. Is this all I can take? Would someone else be able to take more? Am I being a wuss? I want him to be proud of me. It hurts. Fuck, that hurts so much. Ok I am going to say red. Any minute now…
Round and round like the proverbial broken record. He flexed until I could feel the rounded edges of his nails attempting to grip my cervix, his knuckles constrained by my pussy and the created vacuum making it even more difficult for him to manoeuvre and make deliberate, precise movements. The edges of his nails touched then glanced off my cervix any number of times, making me struggle to both remain on the bed and duly quiet besides.
The flashes of his face between squeezing my eyes closed to meet the red to white pain showed me the truth of this man. Not the yawn-worthy ‘eyes of steel’ but something harder, something so terribly bad, something much worse than a wall of nothing. A wall of something. A sentient sadism like two glinting knife edges poised to strike and enjoying the process of fear in their victim. Dark, so dark like chocolate turned to charcoal – the embers shining in the centre of them the only external view of the deviant fire blazing within.
So how could such knife edges enjoying the wait to strike, brought to searing point by the intelligence of a fiery mind ever seem so worthy of trust? I have no idea. But looking up at his face there was something else, other than a cruel enjoyment of my suffering, other than poised patience waiting for the right time to turn up the heat of his attack. There was knowing. Experience. A need to give me what I need. Love. Care.
He turned up the attack another notch and his nails digging into my cervix, beyond a widening stretch of his fist felt like those fire treated knife points slicing up my centre and ripping me apart.
“Fuck… Red. Red! Please, sorry…”
He’d stopped the second my mouth shape started to form the R.
He wiped off his hand, and didn’t attempt to move me from where I lay, broken. He put himself over me and placed one arm around my back and held me, his other hand feeling where I’d automatically placed my hands over my pussy entrance, pressing in, hard, against the remnant ebb of pain that still throbbed away inside. Deeper than I cared to reach right now, scared of what I would find. His hand over mine, pressing, as his body weight and heat pressed against me, comforting with his presence more than any words could right now. They would come later. Right now, physical attendance was all that was required. My mind couldn’t deal with more than a tender touch.
Eventually he moved to be by my side. I didn’t sleep for a long, long time, my mind turning over the actions and the whys and the repercussions and what it all meant, if anything beyond the need for a breaking, and a need to establish my personal limits, for me, not for him. I needed to know where I could be taken to, that I would indeed be able to stop, and the patterns my mind weaved throughout it all.
I slept in a pool of blood that night, but I also slept in a beautiful surrender. We call it love.
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