A Symphony of Kinky Fuckery

Image via Pixabay

I miss the music we used to make. Full of growls and whimpers, sighs and gasps. I squeaked and he chuckled.

The symphony of our kinky fuckery never sounded the exact same, but you could always sense the theme, guess the composer, and recognize the instruments.

A sharp slap followed by a low moan.

Murmured taunting and sweet begging.

Thwaps and swats and smacks kept the tempo.

Wet squelching and flesh meeting flesh set the mood.

Always, always there was the crescendo followed by a lull and then it built again. The second orgasm always more powerful and louder than the first. The teasing always more intense as time went on. Every spanking, paddling, or flogging built on itself as the night progressed.

It didn’t matter if I was strapped to the St. Andrew’s Cross, suspended in the middle of the room, or lying in the middle of the bed. He played my body like an instrument and led our symphony like a conductor.

We both knew where we wanted to go — bliss. But how we got there varied slightly each time.

Would this be a song of pain? A song of longing? One of torment and torture or the full-throated melody of pure pleasure?

In truth it was often all of it, each its own moment in time, each making me wonder if I could handle the intensity of the sensations and my own emotions.

The kinky fuckery in our lives over the past few months has been good. It always is, but it’s less a symphony and more a brief interlude and we know the notes by heart.

I look forward to delicious music-making in the future and finding myself in the middle of a full, kinky symphony.

Welcome to Wicked Wednesday where the prompt is “symphony.” There are good reasons for a decrease in raucous kinky fuckery, namely children on summer break, and we have a plan to get our kink on very soon. But yeah, I miss it.