He Fucked Me So Good He Broke Me

He canes my ass. He canes my thighs–the backs and the front. He canes me over my tattoos and they are ultra sensitive. It’s a good girl spanking, because he was craving putting cane to flesh and I asked him for it. He increases the weight of his swing with every ‘thwack’ against my skin and it makes me wiggle from foot to foot and whine. The most painful spot, undoubtedly, is just below my ass cheeks, right on the high tops of my thighs. The arousal in his voice increases with every single one of my strangled “owwwwweeeees.”

Every time I answer “I don’t know” instead of yes or no, he raps me hard, just above the knee–on second thought… that may be the most painful spot. He keeps it up until I start getting sassy, and my panties are soaked, through and through. I am bouncing back and forth on the balls of my feet, but not because of the pain, because I am wet and desperate for him to hurt me, to be rough with me, to fuck me. I want his hands on me, in place of the cane.

“Get up on the bed, on your knees.”

I do. And he whacks my feet in the arches, over my knee high socks. I moan and writhe on the bed. He beats the balls of my feet viciously and I feel that reptilian click in my brain. The monster is alive inside of me and is hungry for more. I have the vaguest desire to peel down my panties and beg him to cane my pussy. It would feel like dying, and I have the strongest taste for it on the back of my tongue.

“Where do you want the next ones?”

I want to ask for that agony, but I don’t have the nerve. I ask him for more lashes on my ass. I don’t ask nice enough and he hits me across the back of the thigh sharply, over and over again.

“Try again, ask me like the good girl you know you are.”

I ask nicer. I ask prettier. He tells me to peel my panties down. I do. He continues. I yowl. I moan. I wiggle. When I look over my shoulder, his cock is rock hard. The sight of it makes me salivate.

“Are you enjoying that?”


“You’re such a good little girl… such a good girl,” he murmurs his words of praise and my cunt grows wetter. “Spanking your cute little ass has made Daddy hard though.”

He is unbuttoning his jeans and peeling them down.

“Has it?”

“Oh yea… and Daddy wants your cute, tight ass. But does Pooh want to ride or does she want to get it on all fours?”

I mewl and squeal and he raises a brow.

“I don’t know,” I whisper and he thwacks me HARD with the cane.

“And since you don’t know… Daddy’s going to take what he wants.”

His hand at my back forces me forward and down, and he climbs up behind me.

“Get your ass up,” he growls, and I do.

He spits on my ass and I groan as he forces himself all the way into my tight ass. He is always just this side of pain, and it makes my cunt drip down my thighs.

“No… oh no… you’re too big, Daddy… please stop…”

“Take it.”

“You’re too big…”

“Keep taking it… you’re a slut for having your ass fucked, aren’t you?”

“Yes… I love it,” I whimper.

“Then take it, baby,” he growls.

He presses harder, ruts against me deep and rough. His hands hold my hips and he drives in against me. I am moaning and whimpering and I’m not sure if it is pleasure or if it is pain or pleasure from the pain. I can hear myself and I sound like someone else. My voice, my moans are small and desperate and I have the vaguest notion that I sound like a total slut. And then I can’t think about anything.

He pulls all the way out and forces himself all the way back in. Again. Again. Again. Every time he pushes in, the feel of the thick head of him re-entering me rends something inside of me.

“I feel so empty when you pull out of my body… please… please… put it back in me.”

He forces himself all the way back inside.

“Oh… oh… owwww,” I whine.

“Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” I cry.

He pulls out. He pulls all the way out and stays there.

“Please, Daddy.”

“Please what?”

“Put your cock back in… put it back in…”

He obliges me and groans as he does.

“I can feel your cock against the back wall of my cunt, Daddy and it feels soooo good,” I whine.

He ruts and humps and thrusts against me roughly and I keep saying his name like it is the only way I can take a breath. He fucks me deep, forces his hips against my ass every time.

“Oh… my little pussy is so needy, Daddy,” I groan. “Will you please put your fingers inside of me?”

“Oh yea, baby, fuck.”

His fingers, not one, or two, but three of his long, thick fingers slide inside of my tight hole and he strokes my insides. His hips pick up the pace and it is still not enough. I am so fucking needy and I can’t take anything less than everything at once. His free hand hooks around the front of my hips and pinches my clit sharply. I cry out for him.

“Please, I’m so horny, I fucking need it, please finger fuck me while you fuck my ass, please, please…”

His fingers match the rhythm of his hips, and he flexes and scissors them, spreading my pussy wider even as it contracts around him.

“You sound like a fucking animal,” he groans in my ear, and I can hear how wrecked he is in his voice. “Such a needy little slut, fuck.”

I start to tremble around him and my body forces me headlong into an orgasm. My cunt flexes and spasms around his fingers, my ass tightens around his cock and my body is milking him, pushing him to his own climax.

“I’m gonna cum in your ass,” he growls.

He does. And I continue to push and rut and grind back against him through his orgasm and mine, until I am spent and out of it and I cannot move. I lay my head against the bed, my ass still up high, with him still inside. Small noises and moans slip past my lips. I am nothing but a puddle. My lower body feels soaked and a little bit numb, and what isn’t numb is tingling, and the pain from the cane is already starting to edge into my consciousness, and I know I am already bruised because something about cane marks turned bruises itches in a strange way that I cannot explain, and nothing that can be scratched, and I am feeling it in all the places he has beaten me.

He slides out of me and the loss of him makes me groan.

“Deep breaths,” he murmurs, and fiddles with something on the bedside table.

He spreads cool lotion over the backs of my thighs and my ass cheeks. It stings and I yelp. He chuckles and rubs it deep into my skin.

“Are you feeling droppy or low?” he asks softly.

I can do nothing but shake my head.

I turn over and he spreads the lotion over the fronts of my thighs, from knee to that deep place where my legs connect to my pelvis and I shudder and murmur small “ows” and “meeps.”

We make small talk.

“Hopefully you’ll be able to sit at work tomorrow. And, you know, your colleagues won’t think you’re being abused. Again.”

After some moments, a giggle bursts forth from my lips. He raises a brow.

“I think I liked the cane too much.”

“No such thing,” he smiles.

I’m giggling again, telling him how wet it made me when he caned me. He knows, he felt it on his fingers when they pressed inside of me. I’m making small, kittenish noises while he strokes my flank and I wiggle on the bed. I roll around and close my eyes and stretch out my legs and my arms. There is some warm pit of joy in the deep and dead center of me and I can feel it spilling forth like water that has boiled much too hot. I giggle again.

I tell him about the fleeting desire I had to have him cane my cunt. And then tell him about my inner war with myself–wanting it and not wanting it. My constant battle with my inner masochistic monster, the way she shouts “more more!” from the depths of me and would have my blood. I giggle the whole time and he is highly amused by me and my frantic, high-pitched voice. I pick up the cane where he has laid it.

“I think you’ve had enough. For now.”

“My inner screaming masochist is like: we can take more.”

“I know you can take more… but I think for now, you’re good. You have to be able to go to work in the morning,” he says.

“I was just saaaaaying.”

He chuckles: “And I’m just saying, me, as the Dom, I have the final word, and I think you’ve had enough for now. We don’t need you bleeding out of big ruptured welts and wounds tomorrow.”

“My tits were bleeding last time.”

“I remember,” he says and takes a stern tone. The conversation is closed.

He eyes the clock; it is well past five am.

“Shouldn’t you be trying to sleep?”

“Are you trying to push me away?” I ask petulantly.

“No. I’m trying to take care of you. If you don’t want to sleep, I won’t say another word about it.”

I cower and whine and snuggle up to him. I ‘rawr’ at him and giggle again. He laughs at me.

I am in a weird head space. I ask him if he ever gets ‘top drop,’ and we can talk for a while about that. I explain to him that I feel high and a little woozy and different from my normal weepy, emotional state after sex and after scening. When I am normal (weepy and emotional) it is because of how good and deep the connection and the space is between us… how deep he fucks my mind. And even though we had that this time, I feel… different. I cannot stop laughing and rolling around and pawing at him. I feel like a cat whose buried its head in the nip for too long.

“You sound drunk,” he says.

I do. I feel drunk.

I start talking rapidly and making strange observations. I start pouring out secrets to him and being girly and complimentary and cute and cuddly. I feel like my mind is rolled and gone. He starts picking at me gently, making fun of me and I can’t stop giggling and my voice stays high and buzzy. He says I’ve been humming since I’ve had my orgasm and I realize that I am.

I am euphoric and high and chatty. I can’t open my eyes and I can’t stop grinning like a fool.

“You’re utterly fucked out, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” I giggle and feel my cheeks blush.

“You’re sooooo cute and pliable right now,” he laughs.

I can feel the wolf in him, peeking through in that laugh, and I feel like a lamb who is happy to go to slaughter. After some time, I roll out of bed and pad my way to a shower. It makes me feel calmer. When I climb back in bed, I still feel buzzed and high, but quieter. I wrap my body around his and drift off, still humming, maybe.



P.S. I’m a fucking spaz. What I described up there was only the tip of the iceberg of the kind of mood I was in. Sir has yet to let me live it down. He actually came up with the title of this blog post–it was sooooo accurate. In spite of making fun of me, he was having serious cute aggression over how ‘adorable’ I was being, apparently. Also, his cock has an ego that needs its own zip code now. God save us all.

6 responses to “He Fucked Me So Good He Broke Me

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