I have very strong opinions on mince pies. While I accept it is entirely a matter of taste, I don’t like mince pies you can buy from supermarkets, over sweet with sugary pastry. Proper mince pies are ones you make yourself. Whether you agree with me on this or not, however, I think you might enjoy the festive filth which follows, which features knife (or more accurately sharps) play.
Baking mince pies is my favourite Christmas tradition, and not one that can be put aside just because I feel anxious.
Usually there is something therapeutic about the baking ritual. I love making a mess with flour as I coax together a simple pastry, getting my fingers sticky when I fill the cases with mincemeat, and finishing each of them with a delicate pastry star… Today, though, I can’t find that balance of calm inside me that allows me to give over to the meditative headspace that is as close as I manage to get to that of a spanking at this time of year.
I don’t look up from my hands – which are rolling pastry into thin sheets – when he steps behind me. I tense, dreading that he’s going to be gentle with me and try to hold me softly and kiss my neck. Right now, I can’t think of anything worse – but he doesn’t. He wraps an arm around my throat, holding me firmly in place, and I let out an almost inaudible whine.
He doesn’t give me a chance to think, and I am deeply grateful. My hands let go of the rolling pin and my fingers go to scrabble at his tight hold on my neck, though I think I’d cry if he let go. He’s not choking me, just reminding me of my place. He rips my shirt out – it’s tucked into my jeans – and drags his nails down my back. I shiver.
“Going to fight me, little slut?” he whispers in my ear, and again that pathetic little whine escapes from my lips. I shake my head, pressing myself more firmly into him as his fingers sneak around and begin to wickedly twist one of my nipples. His hard cock pushes against my arse, and it is mindlessly relaxing in a way I can’t put into words.
He removes the arm from around my throat, and I don’t have time to miss it before he pinches my nipple again. A reminder – no, an order – not to move. Another day I might have wriggled and fought him, but today I surrender and am rewarded with his nails scraping down my back again. I bite my lip. He does it again, harder, and I moan.
He nips at my neck – right at the back so it is all sharp and teeth and he pulls the skin away a little and makes me yelp. Then – still not allowing me even a second to process one sensation, something quite different is pressing against my back. Cold metal in a strange shape, digging into my skin… He is dragging it across my back before I can work out what it is: the star-shaped cutter that I washed earlier but haven’t used yet. He pushes it harder into my flesh, just below my left shoulder bone. I whimper, hating and loving that he holds me in place and forces to accept the pain.
The sharp pressure moves, the cutter now pressing into my right side, but he doesn’t let up on squeezing my nipple. The tip of the star drags from the nape of my neck to the base of my spine, and then digs in and twists. It feels like he has more than two hands, as he holds me there and pulls the sharp metal over what must surely be every inch of my skin until it feels like it is burning.
I suddenly realise that I’m crying, and he isn’t hurting me any more – just holding me. He holds me there, breathing steadily until I am too. My skin feels alive and I feel calm. He nips my ear.
“C’mon, let me help you finish these – then you can suck me off while they’re baking. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Instead of answering, I turn around to kiss him. Kink is not therapy but it can be therapeutic, and this perversion of my usual Christmas tradition felt so very right.
Masturbation Monday is run by the fabulous Kayla Lords. Click on the logo to see what everyone else is getting off to this week.
I do not have the spoons to be clever with recommending related-to-my-smut sex toys to y’all this week, so instead I’m going to share some Christmassy adverts for Lovehoney, because buying partners sex toys for Christmas is (in my opinion) a really fun thing to do! Also if you want to support me and you don’t live in the UK or the USA, please get in touch and I’ll send you personalised sex toy recommendations.
If you’re UK based, use this link:
Image sourced through Pixabay. This posts includes affiliate links and if you buy from them, I make a small commission.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.