Waking up, he stretches, bones popping and cracking as he slowly slides from the bed. His mind is already firing on all cylinders, like an electrical current of thoughts and images flowing seamlessly from one thing to another. It is a chaos he is comfortable with, and he doesn’t know how to be any other way. Deep inside, he knows If the chaos were to ever grow quiet and be stilled…he would cease to exist. He would no longer being the person that he is.
He looks at himself in the mirror, and runs his hand over his head, feeling his close cropped hair. It’s always short, and cut once a month, shaved almost down to the skin. For the last twenty-five plus years it hasn’t changed much. It is still just as dark as it was when he was in his late teens. Although, he has to admit, there is a just a little bit more grey showing these days.
There’s even more when his beard has grown out, and what that thought, he lathers his face with cream. Running the razor along his cheek, jaw and throat. It is a straight razor. One that once belonged to his grandfather, but still in excellent condition. He only started using it a year or two back, when he picked it up from the old home place. He smiles to himself, remembering the old man trying to teach him how to use one…and the bloody mess afterwards.
His mind continues to flow, going from one image to the next as he showers and dresses for the day. To an outsider, it would seem his thoughts were haphazard with no rhyme or reason to them. But, to him, it is a sense of organized chaos, compartments of information where everything is tied together by even the smallest of strands.
Making his way to the kitchen, careful not to wake the sleeping household, he pours himself his morning cup of coffee. It’s always one cup, every morning, over ice with a few drops of cream and a dash of sweetener. Then, content, he sits down at the breakfast table for a quick bite. Sipping his coffee, he continues to think and slips into an all too familiar compartment…
He can see her in his mind’s eye, soft body bared and exposed before his eyes. The beauty of her curves never ceases to amaze him, and the longing she evokes within him is almost overwhelming. He can feel the hunger for her burning him up inside, threatening to consume him completely. Does she realize just how much he hungers for her touch, and to have her body beneath him, responding to his touch?
Flexing his hand, he thinks about having her over his knee, ass raised and at the ready. He can almost feel the sting in his hand as he imagines bringing it down on her cheek. He can almost hear her yelp of pain and pleasure, at the first smack, as she tightens…anticipating more. He can see her legs, kicking slightly, as he alternates between each cheek, her yelps of pain turning into moans of pleasure. All the while, he’s holding her against his body with his other hand, letting her feel his arousal pressed into her side.
He snaps out of it just a bit, taking another sip of coffee as his thoughts shift to the concept of “impact play”. Does enjoying impact play make the one giving it a “sadist”? Does it make the one on the receiving end a masochist?
He doesn’t think so, because he isn’t a “sadist” in the strict sense of the term. He’s not into giving pain, strictly to give pain and doesn’t derive pleasure from inflicting pain or humiliation upon others. Impact play is interesting that way, and everyone is different. Some are into it because they are true sadists that take joy in being mean and brutal. While others…have a different outlook…knowing that there’s a time and place for everything. Knowing when too far is too far.
Though he has been known to use a paddle, or a brush, he doesn’t typically like to use implements in impact play. He prefers the feel of her flesh beneath hand and the pleasurable sting of his own flesh. This is a control issue for him, he likes to know just how hard he is striking and control the amount of force behind the impact.
He’s not opposed to open palm smacking her thighs, clit, ass and even breasts, savoring the intense look in her eyes. He’s also not opposed to marking her flesh, leaving her little reminders that make her smile later. But, he draws the line at permanent markings and damaging her beautiful flesh beyond repair. He will push her to her limits, and even beyond, but never hurt her for the sake of hurting her. And, striking her face is always out of the question.
His morning coffee finished, he makes his way out the door to greet the day…. the final thought on his mind as the door closes, “Even I have my hard limits.”
© AC Elliott, 19-Jul-18