Apparently, this is a thing. At least with the men in my life.
John has always liked biting me on the butt. He says it's irresistible. When he helps dry me off after a shower (not that I can't dry myself off, you understand, but it's more fun his way), he'll suddenly lean in and bite one of my cheeks. And then, because he's OCD, he has to do the other one. He calls these "bun bites." Clearly he has me confused with a Big Mac. (Or a McVeggie burger, in his case.)
Steve is also fond of biting on my butt during a spanking. He says the bright red cheeks are just too inviting. I wouldn't know, since I can't see them. But I was wondering how many bun-biters there are out there.
I'm normally not a fan of being bitten. Light nibbling, yes. Hard sucking that raises hickeys, yes. However, the sensation of teeth sinking in me hard enough to leave bite marks doesn't turn me on.
Except when I'm in that zone, when my bottom is aflame, when all the nerve endings are hypersensitive, when pain commingles with pleasure. Then, that slow, slow bite, increasing the pressure incrementally until it's almost unbearable, is delicious.
Here I am in anticipatory mode, with an almost pristine canvas:
And of course, the "I am @#$%ing DONE" mode:
However, in the above shot, you can't see Steve's dental artwork.
Of course, he chose the more tender spots closer to the center. Beast.
As usual, these pictures don't do the redness justice. But trust me, it was there.
I needed intensity yesterday, after last weekend. So much pent-up tension had to be released, and it was. And yes, afterward, I had a mini-session with my little purple rocket while he quietly watched. Damn near screamed the walls down, as it went on and on.
I wish people wouldn't drink and use drugs as escape. There are much healthier and lovelier ways to escape from life's trials for a little while.
So, bottoms, a word of caution: Be careful about to whom you say "Bite me." They just might.