Antonette's World

Restrained. Hair pulled. Slapped.

Over clothes at first, maybe. Slowly stripping away layers both physically and in a less literal sense. Feeling them collapse against you, and cling to you. You hold their hand, both keeping them in place and balanced where they need to be, and to reassure them. You both do that little thing with the thumb. That little rub that says "I'm here. It's okay." And they need that reassurance. So do you. Because the intensity builds and builds until they are struggling and crying involuntarily. The sort of circumstance that makes you pause and check in, unless you're very familiar. Even then you may still stop and make sure that they're okay. You may stop and make sure that you are okay. That little thumb thing is what holds you both down. The hand held together. Keeping them in place, and pinned down, and binding you both together.

Just a little more. Just a little further. The involuntary struggles stop but the tears flow more freely. Your partner clings to you like you're all that keeps them from being swept to sea. Your hand and arm ache. Their rear has welts and bruises. When you stop there's stillness for a little while, and they ask for you to hold them. They climb into your lap and cling to you and wince at their own weight against the bruises just made. Their face in your neck and shoulder. Their arms around you. And you both just pour out so much that was bottled up inside of you. You both let go.

Ductaping a vibe to her clit on medium and asking her questions. Turning it lower with every correct answer she gives. Turning it up every time she answers wrong.

She’s a smart girl (not for long, but even dummies are good at pattern recognition) and will answer wrong to chase her pleasure.