Prone vs. Supine

That was entirely far too long to be face down.

I mean, I Get it – my arse is a favourite. I know the score, and the animalistic connections- the cheeks, the tits, the baby pink, the milk, the urge to survive, the mother and the prime mover who made us, poking at my hips, slapping my arse while I grin wildly – ok, I’ll admit, I have always loved that. And I know you know that, so while I appreciate the much wanted effort, I’m not quite ready to throw it all in your lap idea wise, so to speak, since I told you beforehand, about the arse spanking. For god’s sake, Mr. Magoo and his trusty dog McBarker could have wandered into me and realized I loved waking up with the slightest rosy tint of a handprint on my arse cheeks.

I’m no Freak, mind you, I’m not one of those whippy people, who gets their jollies out of dressing like 1990’s Goths in pleather and beating the shit out of each other. If I ever had a black eye, it would mark the ending of one hell of a fight, which I still would admit (even if not true) that I let you win. I don’t have any deep seated mental requirements to be hung up by my tits, nor do I think it would do me any good or emphasize my womanhood any to nail anything sharp to anyone’s cock. I don’t judge; I just don’t require those things. This is different, and comes from a wholly more lighthearted place. Do you think those people tell jokes when doing those pleathery things to each other like I’m accustomed to? My arse being the drum, in the band, and the rehearsals, and the really big show…..and all that? How do they break the ice with that sort of thing? Even if they know each other’s a pleather lover, how do they just………go from normal- I’m sorry, there I am judging again, from average daily activities to pulling out the iron maiden and having a night in?  I'll admit, the moment when the whacking begins….well, there is a moment with my arse too, I suppose. Just before. The silence and the slight wince, the tear (purely from being physically bent over, not from the sadness or beauty of it all, but I guess I can’t prove that) rummaging in a half drip just to the middle of my outward turned cheek, as I turn back to smile, just like always (it always holts right there mid-cheek…whatever its reason, it’s not enough tear to make it dramatically to my lips or chin).

It’s seamless to me, but I can imagine the booze helps. I think, as long as the Idea of booze inside you remains, even if during the next morning or afternoon (depending on the length of play and the activities slotted or not slotted for the following day) you are technically sober, it allows the liberation of this process, ongoing. After all, smack (no pun intended, but even the sound of that word spins my top up a flight of stairs to a different sort of heaven), smack in the middle of drunk isn’t always the best place to mingle with each other’s bodies (a friend told me once, it was like “trying to shove a clam into a parking meter”).

Still, in the midst of all this, after the spanking, while the sometimes redness gathers in blooming folds, ridging the once smooth skin of my arse, the fucking occurs and all the bells and whistles that come with it (not literally, as these fall under the auspicious office of those pleather types again...or maybe not, maybe more your fantasy monger…I mean, fine, every woman likes to pretend she’s getting raped sometimes, right? (...) Oh. Well, I read it in a book once – it was based on the culture I call my own, and those types, well I guess those are technically My type, but those types just need a little excitement sometimes. It’s not for Every Day, for God’s sake. The rape and the porn, the ruler and the schoolgirl, that’s basic stuff. I’m taking those folk who graduate from all that into something else. Took drama one too many times at school or something, or were still into costumes as much as they were when little kids…the ones who need grips, tracking shots and Victorian wear just to get off with each other. Well, I think I’m much simpler than that).

To reiterate, I don’t mind the why of the arse, nor the so called abuse of it, nor the being taken like dogs do- it’s fitting and if you don’t deal in your own personal beasts, then they lose the warmth of their fur and nails and skin, and their eyes fall back into their head; they hollow, and form into metal, the metal of the machine that owns You, and not the other way around. You can tame them, same as I allow you to tame me (see the middle ground? No? Good. I have a team of ladies in waiting there, and it’s best you don’t come in after they call lights out – there are elevations to a woman that most don’t want to step up to, or see. I like it that way and step up with bells on (again, not literally speaking, though that may be fun)).

When you Are in there, or somehow in conversation with the favourite – my arse, just remember that none of those ladies get that level of understanding, down to the far reaches of our first selves, our hunched shoulders and meaningful grunts, the scream that signals to the night that we are so very alive.

Just.......remember to flip me back over sometimes, ‘cause I been told I have nice eyes too.

M. Lucia