Belts are fascinating and filthy in a way that makes me genuinely squirm. In my opinion they’re the best of all the hitting devices. Why? Because they are long, meaning they can be used to reach and beat places you might be out of reach for otherwise. They also come in all thicknesses, which means you can exactly graduate the level and type of pain you like, and balance it with other things that are specifically hot. The delicious ‘thud’ sound of a thick one, or the shivery ‘whish’ of a thinner one. Something thick that can be hefted with strength and inflict a dull, spread-out pain, or something lighter that must be used more delicately in case it leaves a trail of narrow red welts.
Might have to have a lie-down before I finish this entry.
Belts are the central element in a fantasy that’s long been one of my very favourites. When I’m tired and horny, or bored and horny, or basically anything and horny, here’s a show that often plays on the perfect porn-set inside my head.
The belt fantasy
I love this so much I sometimes dream about it. A guy, dressed but with trousers undone and cock pushed hurriedly through the gap in his boxers. Stiff, glistening with precome, gripped tightly in his left hand.
I’m on all fours in front of him, looking straight at his dick as he rubs it firmly. He nudges it against my lips to open my mouth wide, then pushes it as far back as he can, until it’s filling the back of my throat.
“Stay still,” he says, as he holds my hair and starts to slowly fuck my mouth.
That’s the start of the fantasy. I miss a bit in the middle – if I were building a story I’d give you some mid-length spiel here about how his thrusting gets faster, more insistent, as he gets frustrated and keen to come. But in my head that doesn’t happen, because that’s not the fun bit. The start is the fun bit, and the end – the end is the bit that makes it all worthwhile. Here’s how the end goes:
He’s fucking my face with quick, insistent strokes. I’m choking – partly in response to the feel of him hammering the back of my throat, and partly out of eagerness to get more of him into my mouth – to fill myself with his dick until my eyes are watering and my cunt is twitching. I moan a bit in sadness as he pulls his dick out. He leans back, pushes my head up, and instructs me to lift my skirt (did I mention I was wearing a skirt? It doesn’t seem relevant in the beginning but is more than relevant at the end – it’s crucial). I’m wearing a skirt and a blouse. As I lift my skirt he rips open the front of my blouse, roughly pinching my nipples and smirking with satisfaction at his power.
Then, with speed and certainty, he whips his belt out through the loops of his trousers and folds it in two. Hand gripping the buckle, he lets go with a lash.
“Now,” Thwack. “Get back to it.” Thwack.
And I put his dick back in my mouth, arse smarting and eyes watering, and with every single whack of the belt I push my face tighter into his crotch, get his cock that tiny bit further down into my throat.
“That’s it,” He says, hauling the belt back with his taut right arm and bringing it down again on my naked arse. “That’s it. Harder.”
Every. Thwack. Single. Thwack. Stroke. Thwack.
“You filthy,” he hits me one more time – all his strength and all my searing pain build to an angry crescendo. Thwack.
And he comes – dropping the belt and gripping my hair with both his hands, he holds me right where I want to be – lips pushed against his crotch, jaw aching and mouth gaping as he shoots spunk right into the back of my throat.
When he pulls his dick out, it’s glistening with my spit and his come – the residue of all my effort.
There’s no ending to this fantasy, because that’s where it stops in my head. But if I were to write a proper ending, if I had the energy and the will after I’d come to these thoughts, I’d have him pushing me gently down onto my stomach then lying directly on top of me. I’d feel his taut, strong arms around my shoulders and the wetness of his dick on my arse – cooling the heat from the belt slaps.