|by St. George|
Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 03 Jun 2010
There is an intensity about a first time that one never recaptures. Each new experience brings a poignant and sad recognition that there will be fewer and fewer first times. As I wander through the produce section of the supermarket, I feel a virgin's excitement. I know what to buy—we have discussed it and researched it before he casually announced this morning,
“If you're going to pick up some groceries, make sure you buy a hand of ginger root.”
I try to be nonchalant. I'm always a little concerned that my face reveals my secrets to others. The internet is convenient and spares me those poignant moments of embarrassment that come with the purchase of certain items, yet part of me thrills to the embarrassment of buying a bath brush or ping pong paddle that will be used to punish my bare ass. There is a conflict between the private person who writhes in humiliation at the thought of outing himself and the shameless exhibitionist who hopes that some of these people know.
I locate the ginger and try to decide which of the hands best suits my purposes. As I examine them, I become aware that someone is standing beside me. I glance at him but don't make eye contact. He is tall, good looking, Asian.... He passes a couple of comments about the desirability of using fresh ginger, and I agree with him, pretending I know what I'm talking about. I mumble something about making a garlic-ginger stir-fry as I grab up one of the roots and thrust it into a plastic produce bag. It seems to me he is smirking... does he suspect?
I finish the shopping, then go through the checkout process. The cashier is a teenage girl who looks at the ginger root in puzzlement. There is no sticker with the appropriate produce code, and she has no idea what sort of exotic rhizome she's handling. I cannot keep my face from flushing as I inform her it's ginger, but her head is full of other things. She couldn't care less, but I smirk a bit, imagining what her expression would be if she knew.
I drive home and put away the groceries. Now I can examine the ginger hand at my leisure. Though my selection was made blindly, I chose well. There should be no problem in preparing the root this evening. I put it in the refrigerator and try to keep my mind off later.
It's not easy to concentrate on anything. I run some more errands, I do a bit of writing, I finish up a project, I exchange some emails... and waver between anticipation and anxiety. I long to tell others and yet this is our secret. Perhaps I can share it later in a story, but for now I restrain this impulse to... brag? ...or ask for sympathy and reassurance?
He comes in, and though I'm nearly bursting with the erotic tension of having spent all day thinking about this, he makes no mention of it beyond briefly asking if I got “it”. I assure him I did indeed get it, and he gives me a sweet smile.
The events of the day continue—the prosaic events of everyday life that are of no interest at all to anyone. Phones ring and must be answered, laundry must be done, meals must be prepared and eaten, the litter boxes of our tyrant cats must be cleaned... and so on.
But even the longest day dissolves into evening, and I sense the time is drawing near for play. He asks me,
“Did you remember to oil the canes?”
“Of course, I remembered.”
All five of them have been rubbed with linseed oil and hang on the “clothes butler” in our bedroom. Three of them are junior canes. One of them broke during a caning—the tip flew off, much to the astonishment of both of us—so I trimmed it to make a cane that is a few inches shorter than the others. There is a senior cane, which is 3/8 inch thick and a bit longer than the junior canes. Then there is a very thin stinger cane. My first experience with it was a shock.
I am prepared for a very intense session tonight, and I embrace the fear. It is a good, wholesome fear—a thrilling fear! It is a fear with no real risk.
But back to the present—he doesn't like my tone and it provides him an excuse to send me for a paddle. This is all play, of course, but we know our roles well. I almost feel ill used as I walk off in a sulk towards our room. He hasn't told me which paddle. The brat in me urges me to choose the lightest one, but who would listen to a brat? I know what I need better than that immature little adolescent and choose a good, solid paddle. It is ½ inch thick and made of walnut. It combines just the right amounts of heat, sting, and thud.
In a moment of madness, I strip off all my clothes. He normally wouldn't use this paddle unless I had the protection of jeans. It can leave bruises pretty easily. Nevertheless, I'm on edge and the thought of the pain makes my dick hard enough to cut diamonds. A quick glance in the full-length mirror assures me that my ass is unmarked.
I come back to the living room carrying the paddle, and I see he too is now naked. That's hardly a surprise. He tells me that spanking me is hard work, made more comfortable by the absence of clothes. I suspect there is more to it than that, though. I also see he has placed a chair in the middle of the floor for me to bend over. I hand him the paddle and then bend over the back of the chair, taking a firm grip on the legs.
I feel a surge of fear as he takes up his position behind me. This is going to hurt. No matter how much I want it, it will hurt. No matter how much my dick likes the pain, it will hurt. I brace myself mentally and physically.
He cracks the paddle down hard right across the crest of my ass. It's a blistering sting, and I let out my breath in a loud sigh. In the pause that follows, the sting dies down a bit, and I can feel the ache set in. A second lick brings me up on my toes. I'm aware that my face is contorted in what is undoubtedly an unflattering expression. He asks me,
“Are you okay?”
I master the pain and hastily assure him, “I'm fine.”
He takes me at my word and unleashes another lick. I'm relieved that this one is lower. It lights up the sit spot area. Though many people claim this area to be extra sensitive, I like for the licks to land there. It has a much stronger erotic impact than licks higher up. My dick hums in response to this one.
His paddling technique, however, is not about what I like. Most of the licks hit the same area, right across the apex. Each subsequent lick becomes more painful, and even with my experience, I find it hard to remain bent over. The next four licks punish this area, and I have to clench my jaw hard to avoid cursing. It feels very raw.
Then he lands two licks very fast and hard on the sit spot area. This is a cruel trick—he knows how rapid-fire licks push me beyond my limits. I leap up clutching my ass and yelping,
He laughs at me! He loves nothing more than to break through my attempts at stoicism. As the sting fades a bit, my glare dissolves into laughter. I know better than to tell him not to do that again! Good-natured and playful as we are about these sessions, he will assert his authority!
Now that I've been well and truly warmed up, we share an embrace and a delicious kiss. Tongues swab and probe, hands caress and fondle asses and dicks, and I find myself hungrily dropping to my knees to suck his thick, pulsing dick. It's quick—just a tease—and I stand up, pleased to see the euphoric expression on his face. He savors that a few seconds and then tells me,
“All right, let's go prepare the ginger.”
We walk the few steps into the kitchen and I take the hand out of the refrigerator. As he watches, I cut off one of the fingers. Then standing at the sink, I use the peeler to remove the brown skin. It proves to be easy, and I use the peeler to taper the ginger a bit. It's a good, thick, finger... not as thick as his dick, but still more than an inch in diameter.
As I work on the finger, I realize the ginger is very fibrous. Little hairs stand out from the tip, and trimming them proves to be impossible. They're tough; this finger is not going to be perfectly smooth. I shrug. They are not aesthetically pleasing, but they're not a problem. After all, this isn't Halloween, and I'm not in a pumpkin-carving contest.
The finger is about four and a half inches long. About an inch above the base, which has a bit of a knob left on it, I use a paring knife to score the finger around its circumference. I score a second ring about 1/2 inch below the first. Then I carve out the flesh of the ginger root between the two rings. The finger now resembles a butt plug, and I'm proud of how well I've done it on my first attempt. I rinse it off, enjoying the spicy, pungent smell of the ginger. Then I hand it to him... gingerly.
Now is the moment of truth. I'm about to find out what this is like, and I almost cum in anticipation of the burning I expect I'll soon feel inside my ass. He has me lean over the sink, legs slightly spread. He gently parts my sore cheeks and I can feel the ginger pressing against my asshole.
It feels cool and wet from the rinsing. He pushes against me, and I make myself relax as I feel it enter me. He pushes a bit more, and I push against him to open myself. It slides in easily enough, even without lubrication. He takes it slowly but makes sure it is inserted all the way to the retention ring I carved. Once it's in, I deliberately clench my sphincter around it.
It's not instantaneous, but I become aware of a burning sensation. The sensation grows steadily more intense and I take deep breaths. We've agreed in advance to leave it in at least twenty minutes. It is painful in a way, but it is an incredibly erotic sensation and I clench harder to encourage it.
I know it's time for the canes, and I ask,
“Should I get the canes?”
He tells me,
“No, you concentrate on keeping that ginger in place. Go bend over and I'll get the canes.”
I walk with an odd gait the few steps back to the living room and resume my position over the back of the chair. I shudder a bit as the burning intensifies, but rather than relaxing my tight grip, I make a conscious effort to squeeze even more of the juice into my flesh.
He's back with all five canes. He laughingly asks if I'd like to try a stroke from all of them at once and I yelp,
He sets them on a table and considers a moment. Then he tells me his decision.
“Six with each of them.”
I feel a pang of serious alarm. That's thirty strokes! The burning up my ass is not lessening either. I don't protest but I can't resist moaning. He ignores the moaning, though. This is one of those times when he knows me too well. I need the challenge of maximum intensity. I love it even as I hate it. I also trust him. This is going to leave me extremely sore, but how delicious I find that soreness in the memory!
He begins with the stinger cane, which is supposedly the least severe. Granted it doesn't bruise, but it has the most acute sting of any of the canes. I clench my cheeks and then my teeth as I feel a renewal of the internal burning.
He has no compunction about using the stinger cane as hard as he can. It has practically no weight, after all. He's in an evil mood tonight and with no warning, he unleashes six strokes with no pause at all between them. I can hear the whish-whish-whish-whish-whish-whish of the cane and then all hell breaks loose on my ass!
It's impossible to describe the sting... attacked by angry bees or wasps or hornets? liquid fire? cutting, searing? All are inadequate!
I manage to stay down, but only by telling myself that this was probably a mild punishment by schoolboy standards of bygone days. Slowly the nerves begin to relax, but I realize he has picked up the shortest of the junior canes. I grip the legs of the chair as hard as I can and wait for the onslaught.
He is more careful with the junior cane. There are pauses between strokes. Each is delivered deliberately. This one stings, but it's not as terrible as the sting of the first cane. I take my six with it and process the different sensation. It's still an intense sting, but this time there is a throbbing along the lines. It's deeper.
He chooses another junior cane. This one is longer and therefore whippier. It stings more and I find it harder to stay down. After three strokes, I'm technically bent over but doing a fire dance nevertheless as I bounce on my toes, march in place, twist around and try to shake out the sting. The throbbing makes me long to put my hands on my ass and knead it for some relief.
He tells me sternly,
I make an effort and stand still, but I realize I'm twisted away from him and the cane. Once more I master my body and put my ass in the proper position for more of the cane.
This time I curse loudly with each stroke:
“SHIT!” “FUCK!” “OWWWWW... Goddamn it!”
At last he sets the cane down and he picks up the paddle. He gives me a solid swat over the stripes, which hurts a lot. I'm vaguely aware of him warning me about my language.
He sets the paddle down and rubs my ass, letting his hand slip between my legs and caress my balls and dick. I moan, but this time with pleasure. The pleasure subdues the pain, and I'm ready for more.
The six with the last of the junior canes is exquisite torture. I clench my ass and the burning inside re-ignites. I'm sweating and shivering, pain and pleasure now mixed together into intense—unbearable—sensation. I want it to stop and yet I want it to go on forever.
The senior cane is the final one, and I relax. It will hurt, but it stings less than the others. The quality of pain is different, and for me, easier to manage.
He really enjoys using the senior cane. It is less flexible, so it is easier to be accurate. He doesn't hold back on the strokes, and he aims them low. The damn thing does have quite a bit of whippiness, though, and the tip lands on my right thigh. I groan... my thighs are much more sensitive than my ass, and the burning of those strokes reminds me of the lingering burn of touching a cast iron skillet just out of the oven. It doesn't fade away quickly or easily.
At last I've had my thirty cane strokes. I feel weak with relief and pain and lust. I clench my ass once more and another burst of fire inside me complements the soreness of my ass. I continue to lie over the back of the chair and wait for him to take the lead.
Unceremoniously, he pulls the ginger plug from my ass, making me gasp. I can feel his finger applying lube to my asshole, and it's a wonderfully soothing sensation. Then his dick is pressed against me and pushes its way in. The ginger has left me sensitized and it feels incredible.
He fucks me slowly and sensuously at first, his arms encircling me, his hands rubbing my dick, which is so slick with pre-cum there is no need to reach for the lube. I revel in the friction in front of and behind me and the indescribable feelings deep within me as his dick fucks me harder and faster now.
We shoot our loads within seconds of one another, and I can't comprehend the intensity. It goes beyond pleasure... beyond pain.... It is transporting and exhausting.
In the aftermath there is tenderness. I begin to realize how sore I am. It is very uncomfortable, but there is a delight in the discomfort. He steers me to the shower while he erases the evidence of passion, which can sometimes seem rather sordid after the fact. In a few minutes he joins me, and we enjoy the sensual pleasure of soaping one another's bodies.
Then it's to the bedroom where I lie on my stomach as his fingers gently explore the damage. He is the one who winces as he probes the wheals. Despite years of assurances that this is what I want and need, he always feels guilt when he sees the bruises. The arnica cream is on the nightstand, and his hands are remarkably tender as he rubs it in. I moan with delight even though his attentions pique the soreness at times. I could fall asleep in this blissful position, which I've done in the past. Guilt or not, he lands a hefty spank across both cheeks. I snap out of my lethargy with an indignant,'
I know we will do the figging again. We tasted the fruit and found it good. There will never be another first time, though, and that makes me sad. I fall asleep speculating about what other virginities still remain to me.