Scissors and Face Slapping

Even after six years, Sir still surprises me.

On our anniversary, I fell asleep after dinner (I know), but the next day we more than made up for it.

Sir came into the kitchen to get himself a drink. He said he was sad because he had just submitted a resume and he already got a "we're not hiring" letter back [he is trying to find a job closer to my work, so we can move and have smaller commutes].

As he finished pouring his soda, I undid my robe, and raised my shirt up. 

"Does this help? Are you feeling less sad?"

He said, "I don't know..."

He flipped me around to face the kitchen window and groped me pretty thoroughly. I kept thinking about the neighbors getting an eyeful. Once he let me go, I came back in to him for a kiss. 

He pinned me there, keeping me against him for quite some time. Then he said I wasn't properly dressed. I looked down. I was wearing a pink camisole, pajama pants, and my big, fluffy, green Legend of Zelda robe. The picture of sexy, no?

But as he walked/pushed me over to the collar cabinet, I realized what he meant.

The BIG Collar.

He placed it around my neck, and spun me around pulling me to him, kissing me until I was fuzzy. He dragged me to the bedroom and threw me down on the bed.

He began hitting my breasts, at his whim. He'd leave, and go into another room. Come back, and start hitting them again.

I was still not appropriately dressed.

"How much do you like that shirt?"

"It's okay, why?"

"What do you think I have behind my back?"

It wasn't the metal spoon holder we use for impact. Or the chain flogger. I knew it was cold and metal, because it had (accidentally?) touched my feet. Finally my brain clicked.

"Scissors?"

"Very good."

Sir pulled out the pair of scissors. He drew them across my skin. He dug them into the fabric of my shirt, pulling so I could feel it. He  quickly cut away at the shoulder straps, before dragging the scissors down my torso, to the bottom edge of my shirt. Slowly, he started to cut it free. 

Somehow, my brain wanted more. I wanted to feel the blade hit my skin, and Sir obliged. I never thought I would be into knife play... or scissor play. Blade play. I'm pretty confident that if I dragged out that checklist we did way back in the day, it would rate very low; possibly even a soft limit.

It is amazing how things change.

Once my shirt was cut away, Sir resumed smacking my tits. Alternating with drawing the opened scissor blade across my chest. Pressing above my heart. Closing the blade, stopping just around my nipple.

The idea that he could just snap the blade through my nipple if he so chose... I am very glad he did not so choose but everything about it just had me in his thrall.

He resumed smacking my breasts and then... *Crack*

Sir slapped me right in the face. No warning. Nothing.

I don't recall Sir ever doing that before. He told me later he has done this once, but I honestly don't remember. I was completely stunned. At a loss for words. Not at all angry or upset, like I thought I would be. And very, very turned on.

After more swats to my chest, inner thighs, and feet, Sir had me move to the middle of the bed and began to fuck me. He continued to smack me right in the face at random intervals. Each time completely unexpected, and each time, releasing a wave of lust rolling through me. I kept looking up at him, touching his face, his beard. He had the smuggest look on his face. I guess he knew just how great he was doing. I'm not exactly subtle anymore.

Right after he made me come, he pulled out abruptly, another display of his control. I started crying, possibly starting even while I was still in the throes of orgasm. I wasn't sad, but tears were just rolling down my cheeks, and I couldn't really stop them. He allowed me to cuddle on him and pretty much cling there as tears streamed down my cheeks, forming a little puddle on his chest. 

Whenever I experience something new with him, I tend to have some kind of  intense reaction, and definitely want to cling. He said I could have all the time I needed. Once I was ready, I went back to him, to make sure he got to finish, too.

I've kept the shirt. I cannot bring myself to throw it away. Seeing it is a lovely reminder. Perhaps I'll sew it back together... and he can rip it open. Perhaps.

I keep thinking about that scene and my feelings on it. I'm surprised by my positive reactions to the blade play, and to the face slapping. I suppose the dominant and sexual context helps, especially for the slapping. I'm not sure that if he just walked into the kitchen with no prelude and cracked me one I would feel the same as I did in these moments.

But I'm so pleased that after six years, I feel like we are still growing, and that we're continuing to grow closer together.