By Kendra Holliday | September 3, 2015
Guess what! Princess Kali is going to release a book on erotic humiliation soon! It’s such a great topic! I’m going to be quoted in it. 🙂 Check out the title: Enough to Make You Blush: An Intro to Erotic Humiliation.
Filling out the survey she put out on Twitter the other day reminded me of this scene I had with my partner a few years ago. It was super intense for me, and taught us about the importance of after care…
It’s noon. I’m at home, just got out of the shower and dressed. Matthew stops by unexpectedly. He walks over to the whiskey, pours himself a drink, and says coolly, “I came for lunch.”
“Oh, you want me to make you something?” I offer.
“NO.” He looks at me. I think, oh shit, here we go.
He walks me back to the bedroom and pushes me onto the bed. He grabs big handfuls of my flesh and I cry out. “Are you finding my handles?” I try to joke. “How many do I have, anyway?”
That’s meant to be a rhetorical question, but he is glad to answer it. “One,” he announces, grabbing my hip. “Two,” grabbing the other hip. He continues to manhandle me, seizes a braid, my throat, my thigh…each body part he molds to fit his grip. He gets to 16…
He has my belly in a death grip and growls, “I want to take this part with me. Leave you here to bleed.”
He picks me up upside down by the seat of my pants, holds me over the bed, and says, “This,” and drops me, “is sub drop.”
He rips my clothes off and devours my pussy from every angle, he keeps flipping me around. He spits whiskey on my frightened pussy and it gets hot and burns.
I absolutely feel like a picnic basket being raided.
I gasp anxiously, “You can’t do this on the very day I posted Kodiak Attack!”
“Why not?” he asks. “It inspired me.”
“YOU inspired yourself?”
“That’s right,” he agrees, “I am my own muse.”
He sheds his shirt, and then presses me into the bed with all his weight and breathes deliberately in my ear, “They say I should be careful with my toys. But I say that if she breaks, it’s not my fault. It means she wasn’t strong enough. And anyway,” he pauses, sighs, and says more to himself, “I can always get another one.”
With that, he clamps a paw over my face and orders, “You’re not allowed to breathe until you cum.” That prompts me to have a prolapsed orgasm, like I shit it right out on the bed.
I orgasm out of fear.
He stands over me and drinks. I peek up. He spits down at me and I close my eyes in time to avoid getting whiskey in them.
I cringe and bury my head in my arms. He leans over me and grabs me by the hair, yanking me around to face him. “LOOK AT ME.” I can hardly manage it, but I do.
The look in his eyes scares me more than all the manhandling and spitting.
“I’ll bet you wished you had clients today,” he hisses, and I squeak in agreement.
He paces. He asks, “What are you supposed to do if a bear attacks you?”
“Play dead?” I guess.
“That’s right. If you stay still long enough, I might lose interest and go away.”
He starts fucking with me, grabbing me, pulling on me, and I do my best not to move, but every once in a while I flinch and cry out. “She must not be dead yet,” he mutters.
Then he fingers me to orgasm again and I give up. He stands and puts his shirt back on, as if to leave.
He’s tricking me, because then he falls down on the bed next to me and undoes his pants, and forces me to suck his cock until he pulls it out of my mouth and spews like a fountain on my face, then feeds it to me, leaving a coating on my chin, cheeks, mouth.
I’m pretty freaked out at this point, and he finally drops back into being more human than beast. He kisses me and whispers, “I am here.”
He babies me a bit, then leaves me to go back to work. He is rejuvenated. He feeds off of my orgasms. Meanwhile, I am shell shocked, drained.
I spend the next three hours in the fetal position.
Yep, sub drop.