How I Met Your Mother
Introduction:
This story was inspired by a conversation with a friend. He was working in his office at home one evening when his laser printer suddenly spit out three or four sheets of paper that he hadn’t printed. Since it was accessible through his home network, he assumed that his wife had printed out something from her laptop. However, it was his daughter who came running down the steps from her bedroom and into his office to retrieve what she had evidently mistakenly sent to his printer rather than to the one in her bedroom. Had she not been in such a frantic hurry to get to the document and had she not looked so afraid that he might have seen what it was, he would not have taken notice. But because his daughter was trying so hard to hide whatever it was from him, after she left, he went over to the printer and selected “Re-print Last Document” from the menu. The printer again started up and printed out a rather graphic story from a website that appealed to people who were into erotic pain. He didn’t have to read the story to know what it was about because he, too, was a regular on that website, as was his wife. His quandary, as he expressed it to me, was how to engage his young, teenaged daughter in a conversation about erotic pain and the safe and not-so-safe ways to pursue that highly misunderstood pleasure. I told him that I would write a story based on what I knew about how he and his wife met and then he could print it off on her printer and leave it for her to read. This is that story.
WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.
If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.
Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2012 by The Technician [email protected].
Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.
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It wasn’t even a real party. It was just our regular Friday night get-together for pizza and a movie. We were in college and weren’t part of the Frat and Sorority crowd. Some of us were commuters. Some lived in the dorms. Most lived in off-campus housing. There was one off- campus rooming house that had a huge shared living room with what was, for that day, a big- screen TV. That was where we met.
Everyone was expected to chip in $5.00 toward pizza and pop. If you wanted beer or stronger, you had to bring it yourself, and you had to be walking or taking the campus shuttle service when you left. Somebody rented or brought a movie or two and we ate pizza, drank beer, and talked until about one or two in the morning and then everyone went home.
Once in a while someone would bring a date. Occasionally a couple who met there would go home together, but for the most part it was just a bunch of college students on very tight budgets killing an evening with pizza, beer and bullshit… except that one night.
Doctor Thomas, one of the profs in the psychology department, had just gotten a book published and had given an open lecture earlier in the week entitled, “Sexual Masochism – Normal or Aberrant Behavior?” It being a college campus, that was one open lecture that was actually pretty well attended.
Dave had gone to the lecture and was spouting off about it all being crap. “These nuts don’t really get pleasure out of pain. They are just passive pussies that let other people push them around and then try to justify themselves by saying that they enjoy it.”
Dave was a psychology major and considered himself to be the assertive alpha male of our group. We all knew that because hardly a Friday night went by that somewhere in the conversation Dave did not say in his most pompous voice, “I am, after all, the assertive alpha male of this pack.”
The group thought of him more in terms of a different set of words beginning with “A” and when he was not present referred to him as “our aggressive asshole male.”
I don’t know if it was that Dave had consumed a little too much beer or that he wanted to show his superiority above the “sick fucks that Dr. T had been talking about,” but he became more and more obnoxious and more and more insistent that all “so-called masochists” were just “passive pussies who won’t assert themselves against others.”
A couple of other psychology majors tried to argue with him and cited this or that book or professor, but being the aggressive asshole male that he was, he just shouted them all down. After a while, it got to the point where he just sat there with his arms folded against his chest daring people to speak.
I should have just left early and gone back home, but maybe I also had consumed a little too much beer. Or, maybe there is only so much aggressive asshole bullshit that I can put up with in a single evening. For whatever reason, after a long period of silence, I said calmly, “Dave you are so full of shit that a case of Exlax wouldn’t even make a dent in it.”
“What do you know,” he harrumphed.
“I know for certain that there are people who – in the right circumstances – get sexual pleasure out of pain and they are not just passive pussies. Erotic pain and sexual submission are not the same thing. You don’t have to let someone else control you to receive pleasure from what others call pain.”
“And how do YOU know that masochists are for real?” sneered Dave.
“Because I am one!” I shouted back.
The room was suddenly very, very quiet. Everyone was looking back and forth from Dave to me waiting for the next words.
“I suppose that means that every time you get hit hard out there on the football field, you pop a woody,” laughed Dave.
“No,” I answered. “I said ‘under the right circumstances’.”
I turned to speak to the group more than Dave and continued, “If a situation is already kind of sexual… if I am already slightly turned on, then the wiring changes in my body. What should be a signal of pain somehow becomes a signal of pleasure. Sometimes that could be physical pain, or it even could be emotional pain like embarrassment or humiliation. And yes, it works better if someone else is inflicting that pain or humiliation, but that doesn’t mean that the person doing that is overpowering me. It means I am allowing them, or even encouraging them to give me pleasure through pain.”
“Big words nerd boy, but you’ve got no proof. I’ll give you the fact that you can hold your own against almost anyone in a fight or an argument, but there is no way I’ll believe that you get pleasure out of pain.”
Charlene, who owned the house where we met and was a post-graduate student working on her Doctor of Psychology, chimed in with her sweet-as-honey counselor voice, “I think there is a way to prove or disprove this.”
Now all eyes were on her. “When we do sexual response experiments the ‘peter meter’ tells us exactly whether or not a specific image or circumstance turns somebody on.” She looked over at me, “If you want to prove Dave wrong, all you have to do is let someone give you a little pain and we see what happens. We don’t have all those fancy sensors and readouts available, but the old fashioned ‘angle of the dangle’ meter will tell us whether or not you are turned on by what is done.”
I looked over at Dave. Apparently the apprehension was visible on my face because Charlene continued, “Don’t worry. Dave is not going to touch you. I don’t think Dave swatting your ass would give you anything but pain anyway.” Everyone laughed.
She paused for a long moment and then added, “I’ll be the one inflicting the pain in this experiment.”
Charlene was a fine looking woman, and I think at that point several of the guys in the room would have suddenly volunteered to be a part of the test, but she was all business and ignored everyone but me. She pointed to the wide doorway that led to what used to be the front parlor. It was one of those of the really old-fashioned doors with the opening for the transom window above it. “We will tie your wrists to the top of that doorway and then strip you down to naked. I will then use a ping pong paddle on your ass until it is good and red. If the peter meter rises, we have clinical evidence that you actually get off on pain. If not, then I guess Dave is right.”
She was good – manipulative as hell, but good. She had me backed into a corner. I could have just said “No,” but instead I agreed – more or less. “OK,” I replied, “but you are not stripping me. I will take my off own clothes.” Looking directly at Dave I added, “And my safeword is ‘aggressive asshole.’ If I say that, everything stops.”
“Assertive answer,” replied Charlene also looking over at Dave. Then she turned to me and said simply, “Deal,” and shook my hand. I got up and walked over into the doorway and held my hands above my head to see how I would fit. If my hands were tied to the top of the door, I would be stretched, but not overly uncomfortable.
“Anybody got some big rope that won’t cut into my wrists?” I asked, and almost immediately a soft, black rope about an inch in diameter came flying across the room. There were tassels on the end of it and one of the big curtains on the front window was no longer tied back, so I knew exactly what it was and where it came from. “That’ll do,” I said. Then, turning to Charlene I added, “Let’s start this experiment.”
Before I could think too long about what I was doing, I took off my T-shirt and dropped my shorts to the ground. It was late spring and that was all that I was wearing. Even back then I normally didn’t wear underwear in warm weather.
Charlene brought a chair over to the doorway and stood on the chair to firmly tie my hands to the top of the door. The peter meter moved a little off zero, and someone called out, “Things are stirring.” The sudden flood of humiliation as I fully realized that I was now standing naked in front of a fairly large group of young men and women whom I considered to be my friends caused the peter meter to firm up an additional notch or two, but dangle remained close to zero.
Charlene stepped behind me and stroked my ass a couple of times. I twitched away from her touch, and she laughed lightly and said, “That is just to enhance the sexual nature of what I am going to do.” Then looking at the group she added, “Besides, he has a really nice ass.” I think what she was actually doing was checking my response to humiliation. I did turn very red at her words, but the peter meter remained just above zero.
I was just starting to ask myself what in the hell I had gotten myself into when suddenly there was a loud smack and fire erupted into my body through my ass cheeks. Charlene had slammed that ping pong paddle against me with all of her strength.
“That was just to get your attention,” she said. Then she began working over my ass like an expert. She would spank relatively softly for a few strokes then really lay one on. She would vary the tempo from several right in a row to long pauses that almost made me wonder whether or not she had stopped. Sometimes she struck from the right and then she would evidently backhand my ass and come in from the left. She made it impossible to anticipate what was going to happen next.
I could feel the intense pain, but I knew that within and beneath that pain lay a tantalizing level of pleasure. I closed my eyes and “went into the pain.” No, I don’t know what that means or exactly what happens, but when you stop avoiding the pain, but rather embrace it, everything changes. It is almost as if a switch is thrown that takes the pain impulses off the pain track and sends them down the pleasure track.
I gave myself to the pain, and from that point on, the pain train was roaring down the pleasure track and heading uphill at full steam. Suddenly Charlene stopped everything. I don’t know how many swats Charlene had given me at that point, but I do know that the peter meter was reaching above 90 degrees.
She stepped around me to look out at the group that had gathered on the floor to watch. “My God, Judy,” she cried out, “your eyes are glazing over. You are really getting into this.” She then said in an almost little girl sing-song voice “We just might have more than one masochist with us tonight.”
I opened my eyes and saw Judy sitting on the floor in front of me with several other girls. She was at the very front sitting in that almost kneeling position where a girl more or less sits on her ankles. I don’t know how girls do that. Men don’t sit that way, but women do all the time. Everyone turned to look at her, and she scrunched herself lower as she mumbled softly, “No, I…. uh….”
Charlene walked over and stood above her. “Judy,” she began, “you can sit there and deny what you are feeling – and we will let you do that if that is what you really want to do – or you can stand up and show us just how turned on this is making you. Then you can strip and go loop your hands over his neck and stand there face to face so I can smack both of your asses at the same time.”
After what seemed like several minutes of absolute silence, Judy slowly stood up. She was wearing a light weight T-shirt with some sort of flower print on it and soft, yellow shorts that hugged her body. As she stood up it was obvious to everyone that she was very wet between her legs. In fact, there was so much moisture that it almost looked like she had peed herself.
“It’s your choice,” Charlene intoned softly. “If you want this, just take off your clothes and go grab his neck. I will spank both of you at the same time so that you go high together.”
Judy’s eyes were definitely glazed over as she took off her shirt and then slid her shorts to the ground. She, too, was not wearing underwear. She came over and stood in front of me and looked up into my eyes for several moments. She then reached up and clasped her hands behind my neck and pulled herself tightly against me. As she did so my penis was forced upward between us and pressed against both our stomachs. I think the peter meter was now just below 100.
The doorway was wide enough that Charlene could stand more or less alongside of us. She now had a ping pong paddle in each hand as she began once again to smack my ass and Judy’s.
With separate paddles for each of us, Charlene had more opportunity for variation. Sometimes she would strike both of us at exactly the same time, sometimes she would alternate me and then Judy and sometimes one paddle would strike just ahead or behind the other.
I am not exactly sure when we started, but both Judy and I began to press and rub against one another as our bodies were driven by the paddles. My peter meter was no longer visible, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that I was very turned on. There was no doubt about Judy either as her moans and cries soon filled the room. Then suddenly she pulled herself upward by her arms, wrapped her legs around my waist, and lowered herself down on my prick.
Charlene took that as a cue to change her paddling to a continuous rhythm of first Judy and then me driving us back and forth. We rocked back and forth to the rhythm, feeling the sting of the paddle and the pleasure of intercourse until Judy and I exploded in a mutual orgasm.
Charlene immediately stopped paddling and Judy and I clung to each other in the doorway. She kept looking over at her apartment mates and then turning and burying her head against my shoulder, turning redder and redder and redder with embarrassment. We had, after all, just put on a very hot, live sex show for about thirty of our closest friends.
“Damn,” I heard Dave sputter. “If I hadn’t of seen it, I never would have believed it. This shit is just to weird for me.” With that he left for the evening.
There were a lot of cries of “Bye Dave,” and “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass,” but since it was late, most of the group soon followed Dave through the door. That left just me and Charlene and Judy and the other girls who rented rooms from Charlene.
The girls slipped out the other door of the front room and headed upstairs to their rooms. Judy continued to bury her face in my shoulder as she hung from my neck, supporting herself with her legs wrapped around my waist. My now deflated penis was still buried deeply inside her.
Charlene came over to us and laughed slightly, “When you are ready, Judy, just pull yourself up off of him and let yourself slide back down to the ground.” Looking me directly in the face, she added, “Then I’ll get you untied so you can go home.”
She stepped back a little ways and with another laugh added, “This would probably make one hell of an interesting paper, and I could probably get it published in a some very prestigious publication.” She laughed again and then shook her head as she looked at both of us and continued, “But I could just as likely end up charged with something or another by the police or the university, so I think we will just let this evening fade into the folklore of campus life at this university. In ten years or so it will be just an urban legend that nobody really believes.”
Judy pulled herself up slightly, let herself back down to the floor, and shakily leaned against the wall. Charlene untied my wrists. As I picked up my clothes and began to get dressed, Judy came and stood before me, still naked. She said, “I think you and I are meant for each other. We understand each other. We can be equals and yet give ourselves to each other and receive from each other what we both need.”
She was right. No one was surprised when we were married at the end of the school year. We have been married for a long time now. We are very much equals and we still give ourselves to each other and receive from each other what we both need – mutual love,… and erotic pain.
My favorite is when we both insert an anal dildo connected to a common tens unit. A separate tens unit supplies stimulation to our nipples just at the pain threshold, but the unit connected through our anal plugs is set to maximum. It has a semi-random timer and we never know for sure when it will send lightning through both of us as we make love. The stimulation, the danger, the excitement, the anticipation of pain all drive us wild, and on those days where we time it exactly right and the lighting arrives just was we both peak, the orgasm which we experience together almost equals that first time when we showed the world that masochists are real.
And that, my dear, is how I met your mother.
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END OF STORY
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