the life and musings of a kinky slut

A Punchy Mood

“Plates or pony tails?”
“Pony tails.”

The first Friday of the month meant Dirty Things.

I prepped in SkinnyBitch’s room and chatted with her, asking for her opinions as I dressed, before leaving out for the party clad in my usual fare, a school girl outfit.

Upon arrival, I could tell this would be a low key affair. I was in a rather chill mood and that seemed to fit the crowd for the night, which ended up being smaller than normal.

Among those in attendance were TwistedView and BrighidsCross. I watched both their rope scene and a highly physical takedown rope scene before heading down to the cigar lounge.

Taking in the haze, I lazed about, chatting with folks, and having a pleasant time.

Then TwistedView entered the room. My eyes grew wide.

“You have shot gloves,” I noted, as a huge grin formed on my face.
“Well I guess this means we’re having a scene then.”

After surveying the space available, we settled under an open arch.

“Murphy showed me the wave punch.”
“Uh oh.”

I asked what he wanted me to take off. My new vest. My tie. My white shirt.

“May I give you a show?”

He leaned against the wall as I delighted in giving him a small strip tease. I slowly unsnapped the front of my shirt, one at a time, then turned around and slowly slid the fabric down my back, flinging the garment to the side.

Without warning, TwistedView grabbed me from behind, using one of my pony tails to pull me, slamming me against the wall.

He started by punching my chest lightly, warming me up. This didn’t last long.

Like the last time he was in a punchy mood, the music was dubstep. He used the rhythm of the music in our scene again, increasing and decreasing the intensity of his punches with the tone of the music. At one point, he began smacking my nipples.

“Pause, just for a second.”

I pulled out my cigar lighter and cutter from my bra, tossing them to BrighidsCross.

“Forgot those were in there.”

TwistedView went back to his assaults.

Turning me suddenly, my face against the wall, he punched my back. I can take much more pain on my shoulder blades, which he gratefully gave.

Foolishly, I at first pulled my face from the wall. When he began wave punching my back, I couldn’t help but hit my head and/or chin against the wall. When I finally began resting my forehead on the wall, my teeth now chattered with his strikes.

Flinging me back around, he ordered me, “On your knees.”

Sitting in seiza, not only were my chest and nipples his targets, but now too my thighs received his assaults. I whimpered especially when he hit my inner thighs. This he took note of.

“Sensitive there?”
“Haven’t you heard of chub rub?”
“I didn’t know they had a term for it.”

Even as my thighs burned from the leg position, I was thankful for his punches to the front of my flesh. It was almost as if his pain kneaded out the oncoming cramping my legs wanted to inflict.

Wrapping his arm around me, he pulled my body towards him. I gripped him tight, my hands on his back as he again punched my back. I felt the sweat of him, the heat of him as he worked over my body. I held him tight, breathed heavy, took his pain into my flesh.

Throughout the scene, I caught the sounds of his growls.

My eyes opened and closed randomly. I didn’t want to look, but if I peered on him I would not flinch before his punches. On the occasions I did close my eyes, more often than not I heard his growls in my ears as I gasped or moaned from pain, especially we he waved punched me, pressing into my flesh to accentuate the blows.

Finished with my back, I begged to be allowed to sit cross legged. I accepted the fact this gave him even more access to my inner thighs. I didn’t care; my legs hated the fatigue of working so hard to keep me up more the possible pain from TwistedView.

Predictably, he punched at his now very open target. I whimpered and cried, once trying to grip the wall I leaned against, once trying to move away.

Unpredictably, he stood, and then placed his left boot on my right thigh. For a second I whimpered, but then I moaned. As he slid the edge of his heel into my flesh, my cry was a mix of pain and pleasure. I had not told him how much I liked to be stepped on.

“You like boots, and you like pain, so I thought ‘Why not?’.”

He pressed into my left thigh, and then, happily, his boot found my chest, pressing into the right and left sides equally. Once, his heel caught my necklace and jammed the metal into my skin. Even with this unexpected (and surprisingly excruciating) pain, I did not care. I was getting stood on, therefore I was happy.

With the music tempo slowed, he softly hit me, slowing down the scene, finishing up.

His aggression let out, and me happy-floaty, BrighidsCross fetched us refreshments, and all three of us chatted as I came back down to earth.

Categorised as: Dirty Things | Friends | Impact

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