the life and musings of a kinky slut


“Do you want to play?”
“Yes. When?”
“But I’m playing with a friend once they get back with their rope.”
“We’ll play til they arrive.”

Gripping the side of my neck, right where I’d been bitten not ten minutes earlier, Roughinamorato pulled me forward. Just as we were to find a space, my friend walked into the Dungeon and approached us.

A dilemma.

I suggested we combine the two activities, but Rough’s plans for me involved my ease of movement. They asked which I preferred first. Of course, I could not choose.

It came down to a coin toss. Heads, my friend; M, Rough. The coin landed on M. My friend stepped aside and patiently waited.

With an enormous amount of room in the middle of the Dungeon, Rough saw where he wanted to work. He found a nearby table, sat down his things, and requested I disrobe down to my boxers and remove my necklace. I could leave my moccasin boots on.

Leading me to the middle of the empty space, he paused for a moment, looking into my eyes, before slamming his fists into my chest. I rocked backwards, but them returned to in front of him. He did it again. And again.

“Welcome,” he said before continuing his assault, punching me, gripping my hair, bringing me back, and hitting me over and over.

This, it turned out, was his warm up.

After a few minutes of chest punching, he stopped and walked back to his table. Pulling out two coils of rope, he began weaving his chord around his fists.

“You could cook something on my chest,” I said, happy floaty-high already. He smiled.

As he constructed his rope fists, I grew nervous. I’d seen his video demonstrating the technique, but now I would feel the full impact of his cleverness.

Finished, he again brought me to the center of the Dungeon. He stopped and once more looked into my eyes.

I steadied my breathing. I tried to prepare myself. I knew the next however many minutes would be, well, rough.

Punches to my chest. Punches to my back. Open hand smacks to my shoulders. I rocked forward, backward. I almost fell to the floor. I began crying.

And then with one blow I was bent over, sobbing. He grabbed me by my hair, brought his lips to my ear, and quietly whispered, “Shh…”

I caught my breathing. My sobs eased. He hurt me, and hurt me, but I kept my cries to high pitched low volume close contact utterances.

He lifted my arms out to the side and then came down hard, opened handed smacks to my ribs. I screamed and hugged in my arms back in.

He walked behind me and kicked my ass (literally kicked my ass, though technically using his thigh), coming across my rump with multiple blows.

And then I was on the floor. He hit me so hard somehow, but I don’t know how, (I actually can’t remember if it was from the front or the back) I collapsed down to the ground.

Once on the ground, I knelt before him. Rough came down to my level and rested on one knee. And as he did, he just stopped and looked at me again, a small smile electric and alive on his lips and in his eyes. He looked on me. And looked on me. And then spoke.

“Say, ‘Yes please.'”
“Yes please.”

Both his fists slammed into my chest. I rolled back and to the right, my body landing half face down on the floor. I pushed myself back up and immediately returned to kneeling, returned to being in front of him, and waited.

“Say, ‘Yes please.'”
“Yes please.”

He did it again. I fell, rolled up, and returned.

“Say, ‘Yes please.'”
“Yes please.”

And he did it again. And I came back.

There was no hesitation, no moment between when he made his request and when I spoke mine. No time for rest, no need for it. I knew what was coming, knew the pain I would endure, and knew I wanted it, no doubt in my mind.

He put his hand on my shoulder, pulled me in close, and stroked my hair. We hugged. I nuzzled his chest. I thanked him and he thanked me.

It was rough, just how I like it.

Categorised as: Impact | RCM | Rope | Roughinamorato

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