Playtime Stories 22 ndash Mistress G rsquo s Slave
- 3 years ago
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Story From A Slave I Play With. free porn video
This post is one that a slave wrote after a number of play sessions that we have had, Note is a long one, It does go into some detail. This took place at a Dungeon at a friends place. Also this slave wrote this on her own account.
*******
It is an ordinary house in a city suburb. I am nervous. It is a while since I have done this. I miss the house, drive up and turn round. I hate driving in the dark. I have had a long week. Our budget is bad and we have been cutting staff. My head is running with the things I have not yet got to and will await me on Monday. Last week I failed my blood pressure test, and the doctor has told me to get more exercise. My shoulders are creeping up to my ears and there is nothing on the radio. I wonder why I am doing this.
When I finally find the house there is no bell. I ring and he comes out. An ordinary man in a striped shirt. He kisses me. Nervous? he asks.
I follow him in. Take off your clothes in there. I don’t yet. I want a shower. I am self-conscious and feel that I smell of stress and the day behind me. In the bathroom the plastic shower door is broken. I have let water flood the floor and search for a cloth to mop it up. And I am worried about my body. I have come from work and am not clean. With delight I find that the shower has one of those nozzles. I use it, and am then worried about hiding the evidence. I push stuff down the drain and then scrub and scrub my hands to remove the smell. I hope I have not blocked the drain.
I scoot past two people watching television and a brown kitchen. I take off my clothes and he says close your eyes. He leads through to the next room. I don’t open my eyes. I don’t want to see or know where I am. This is about me and my body and my sensations.
He is wrapping a bandage around my eyes. He ties it firmly and then tapes it, careful not to catch my hair.
Then there is the collar. A thick leather collar is buckled around my neck. He checks it is not too tight. The collar feels a little heavy and stiff. The leather on my own collar at home is as soft as butter from long wearing. But this is still a collar. I am naked and collared. I know my place.
He buckles cuffs onto my wrists and raises my arms, clipping them up high. I am naked, collared, blindfolded and stretched. It is cold and I shiver slightly. I wait.
A moment later he returns. He touches me and with a shock I realise he is naked. We haven’t done nude on nude he whispers and he is right. At other times there has been the faint sound of the leather he likes to wear, the rough cotton of a t shirt, against my skin.
But I know tonight that I am giving myself to him. He and I have no personal connection. He is not lover, husband or boyfriend but I trust him implicitly. I know that I am safe with him – that whatever happens tonight he can read the nuances of my body. He will not when to start and to stop, he will be able to tell genuine distress from the cries of no that mean yes. His pace and timing will be perfect,; he will conduct the orchestra of my pain and pleasure, drawing a symphony of sound and sensations out of me from different parts and different registers.
But for now I am still. Waiting. He circles my body and the hairs on my arms rise. Lightly he touches me. Strokes my nipples, touches my back. He bends down and gently bits the little place on my waist that he knows. He reaches around and touches my clitoris. I can feel my body following his every move. My breathing is beginning to rise. There is a jolt as my nipple is bitten by a clamp. I can tell these are not clover clamps, the horrible ones. As if sensing the challenge that this is not real pain he grabs my breasts and pummels them. The clamps begin to tighten and my body shudders involuntarily.
He is back around my body now – his nails graze the backs of my knees - he bites hard and I shriek, my body reverberating with the sensation. He circles me – touching, biting, grabbing my breasts. He gently slaps my cunt, faster and faster and again I shiver. Tremors run through my body like electric shocks.
Now there is something both soft and rough. He swats at my nipples, stroking hard downwards. And he spanks me – hard. The sting and the shock run through me.
I am out of condition. Sometimes if you have been doing this for a while, your hide is literally tanned - the skin on your bottom toughens up and you can take anything. But not tonight. My bottom is baby soft, and every blow stings. I writhe and pull away.
There is an art to being spanked, and this man knows it. There are four quadrants to each cheek. You must avoid the sciatic nerve and tailbone. Each quadrant has different sensations. And spanking works at different depths. There is the sharp sting of hand or paddle on skin, and the deeper reverberations ad a strong spank echoes around your pelvis – the sound waves bouncing off the back of your pubic bone. And as a good spanking builds up, starting slowly and moving faster, the sting on your skin is soon lost to a hypnotic deeper sense. There are so many other choices – flat or cupped hands, wooden paddle or hairbrush, hard spanks that go deep, or lighter sharp ones that bounce off your skin.
But that is enough spanking. He has something else – a tiny flogger. He whips and wraps it around my body – my nipple, back. Expertly he flips it between my legs, the sharp knots wrapping round to my lower body, the belly of the whip connecting hard between my legs. My body is torn – it is snapping at the sting of the knots at the same time as craving the feel of the leather against my cunt.
By now the floor is drenched. I have gushed. Gushing is one of the great conspiracies of the modern world; when women come they will – if stimulated in the right way – produce a great flood of clear fluid. Most doctors attribute this to incontinence, others the moistness of being turned on. There is a man on the internet who says he can make any woman gush; I believe him. I no longer have sex without a large stack of towels. Right now, the floor is dangerously slippery and I struggle to stand.
Now he stops and the pace changes. He has thrust something into my cunt and is moving it frantically. I have no idea what it is. But either way he knows exactly what he is doing. The sensation floods through me – its intensity is almost too much to bear. My body is no longer my own and it judders uncontrollably, but what ever I do he wont stop.
I don’t understand the female orgasm. Tonight I wont come once or twice. Instead my body responds to each new outrage in different ways. At first there will be waves as the tension of the day flows out of me. Later they will build in intensity as the wave become deeper and stronger reaching into my inner core. Coming is not something discrete – it is a background to the evening – as each new thing he does finds new depths and reserves of pleasure. These are sets of waves in an ocean – they will happen regularly through the night. But some will be dumpers, and leave me tumbling and disorientated – and I will need to lie still on the sand to recover. Others I will catch, surfing them to the shore as we move from one sensation to the next.
But now he wont stop – the sensation in my cunt is overwhelming, and I literally cant bear the pleasure. I plead within him to stop – this is far worse than pain. By now he has unclipped my wrists – my crumbling shoulders wont take it – and I am free to fall forward onto the bench in front of me. I lie still. My mind is blank and I sink exhausted onto the vinyl.
He wont let me stop. He stands me up and pulls me back by my hair. He has what feels like cane. He pushes me forward so that my hands are on the bench and my breasts hand down. He swats my nipples rapidly with the cane then reaches down between my legs with a battery of rapid strikes. It is not hard but fast and soon the pleasure is rising in me again and I write away from him. As if sensing that I am having too much fun he pushes me down against the bench.
Pick a number between 25 and 40 he commands. This is his way of telling me I have choices but they are limited. Our language is that of slave and master. I call him master as a gift and a sign that I trust him, that I am giving myself to him – and for me it symbolises the surrender of my body.
I pick 32. He has set me a challenge and I must meet it. I am competitive. I ad mit it. I like to win and to show off. I will meet the challenge he sets me. The first few stroke hurt but I count them – one to seven. And then he pauses.
‘Six of the best’ is more than a turn of phrase. Whether it is a cane, tawse or whip – however hard it is, - I have learnt that I can manage about six before I have to stop and pause. And if they really hurt , a pause followed by a gentle spanking will restore equilibrium to the most outraged nether regions.
But now we go straight onto the next seven. He is actually being gentle tonight. The strokes hurt but not enough to throw me. We have played together before many times. On other evenings and other times he has gone in harder – sharp cane strokes that shock and surprise – whippings that get harder until the delirium of endorphins kick in and you float high in the sky. Sessions that leave deep marks for several weeks.
By stroke number 26 I am lulled into complacency – a slight sense of triumph. I can do this I think, but the last four are mean – the last stroke so hard that I am shocked for a millisecond until the pleasure flows, and again I judder and shake
From there on it is relentless. He plays with me like a wilful c***d with a doll. Sometimes biting and kissing, sometimes pain, moving from the faintest touch to searing agony. Because I cant see anything every other sense is alert – where is he? What will come next? The pauses of mixed apprehension and anticipation, the waves of pain and please.
Lean forward and don’t move he says, as I brace myself against the bench. My guess is correct, and the impact is sudden and hard. My body immediately relaxes – this is my favorite, and his. I am judging that this is the big flogger – custom made for him by an expert craftsman and perfectly weighted so that it will balance on a finger tip. The handle heavy and the threads long beautiful leather.
This is his real skill. I call him the master flogger. Each stroke lands beautifully in the centre of my bottom. The perfect twist of his wrist at the right moment means that the ends land together; no stray pieces wrap around my hip and onto my stomach. Like a good athlete he has used his core body strength; and the blow flows smoothly through the flogger from his body to mine. Although each stroke is hard – like being hit by a bus – I relax into it. I literally want to sleep; each rhythmic stroke takes me down a step, down towards a deep green pool of relaxation.
Sometimes in a more lucid moment – and certainly not tonight – I ponder the fundamental dichotomy of bdsm – the dividing line between pleasure and cruelty. Whips, flogging, pain are all abhorrent as forms of torture, whether in the history of AUstralia or in our own time – I am appalled by the photographs of the blind folded man at Abu Ghraib. But that has no more connection to what I am doing now, than **** has to loving sex, or National Socialism had to a just and caring society. I can’t read about a convict flogging, but gain deep joy from my own.
The key difference is of course informed consent. The title of my favourite online bdsm web site, but also a very fundamental principle. Each word matters. The difference between **** and pleasure is of course consent, and the fundamental basis of and rule of all good BDSM is consent. The other word is ‘informed’; I give my consent to this man to do this to me, but both he and I know what we are doing. Yes, he is an expert – and has spent many years learning how to do this, but even for a novice knowing the basic rules matter. For him being informed means knowing how, when and where to hit; he knows and loves his equipment; he observes rules on safety and limits. He knows how to read me and my body and can tell the difference between pain that gives pleasure and pain that does not. He knows to watch for that dangerous place where I think I can take anything and I cant.
For me being informed means knowing that I can trust my partner if I put myself in his hands. It means knowing what he is going to do to me and accepting that he will hurt me. It means taking responsibility for myself and making it clear when I am not happy or it is not working. It means accepting rules and safety requirements.
Why did Jesus die on the cross? He did not use the safe word. A lot of people use safe words to signal distress. Typically they will be something like the word red or something you cant forget – like your name, rather than the word ‘no’ which does not always mean what it says. With someone as good as this man, you don’t need a safeword,
It is time to lie on the bench. Off my feet and finally lying down I feel my body let go. I explode as the pent up tension I have held in check flows out of me in great rivers of joy – I turn on my side and give into it until the tidal wave ebbs, and I lie exhausted.
He pulls me over roughly and spreads my legs. Something sharp strikes my clit and I shriek. It happens over and over again. Qantas, I ask? It is one of those mean little coffee stirrers, and the spring and domed end are just enough to do damage.
Now lie still and don’t move. I tense. I can hear the snap of gloves and the slick noise of lube. He spreads my legs and starts to work on me – his fingers pushing insistently into me, harder and harder. I am beginning to stretch. This is more than one finger, and my body rebels. Relax, he demands. I am afraid. I cant take it – it wont fit. I am filled with the same panic and joy as I felt when giving birth. That great head descends and fills you and you are convinced that you will split asunder. His knuckles are insistent, and my body wavers between wanting to pull him deep inside me, and that feeling that He pauses. I can no longer tell what is happening but I know that I am teetering on the edge of reason; he must have pulled back as he is playing again and again with that deep g spot, but he teases me – I am up to my elbow he says.
Fisting is – like much of this – new to me. The first time it happened I thought I would die. I was at the Salon – my arms and feet clipped to four chains, my body half hanging out of a leather sling. A woman pushed her whole hand inside me and I somersaulted, tumbling through space until my body arced , throwing her back and nearly removing several teeth.
Tonight it is enough and I have to stop. His hand is large and I am overwhelmed. Or so I thought until he begins to work on my bottom. Something is inside me – it is not big but moves insistently and rapidly. My voice starts somewhere in the alto register, but soon he draws deep bass a****l notes out of me. I can’t explain the deep and utter joy of anal sex; it bears no relationship to vaginal penetration. I sometimes wonder if the word fundamental was always meant to have two meanings - my whole being rocks with deep, reverberating pleasure. Even without the hesitation, tightness and gradual opening up of full anal sex, that both frightens and thrills me, he is still finding my deepest point of joy.
One more I throw him off and away as I dive into my own delight, flailing and thrashing until I gradually slow and stop.
A gay man once said that you have never experienced sex until you have had it in a sling. Suspended from your arms and legs, your body is free to arc and wrench in space until you are flying with joy. Tonight there is no sling. Instead I am pulled roughly to my feet. And told to stand there. I can barely stand – I sway slightly and have to lock my hips to stay upright.
He clips my two cuffs together, and threads what sounds like a chain from a ring on my collar through the cuffs, and then takes the end like a leash. We are going outside, he says, I am going to tie you to a tree in the street.
I follow. I have no choice. The door closes behind me and I shuffle towards the step, and through the leaves in the yard. There are voices in the street. He spins me round and round and I hear the front gate open. Forward he says. Remember you are naked and so am I, but they cant see me – I am behind you.
Kneel. I can feel the concrete of the pavement. And suck. This is a step further than we have ever gone in perhaps a dozen sessions. But tonight I consciously gave myself to him. Although nothing has been said we both knew from the outset that I would if asked. He bends me over and takes me. Oddly it is the least pleasurable part of the evening, but this is for him, not me. This is my thanks to the man who has spent the better part of two hours exploring every part of my body, and drawing more out of me than I thought possible. It has been, until now, my night.
He stands me up and I shuffle forward. My sense of direction is not that bad. I know that the leaves under my feet are actually those by the front step, and we are still in the walled yard. But I let myself not be sure – and that has been part of the game.
Back in the house we are quiet. He unclips my wrists, takes off the collar and finally unwinds the bandage. We are two ordinary people, in a bright room, surrounded by an odd array of equipment. I head for the shower and let the hot water flow over me. I am calm and happy. In the kitchen a sneak a crisp from an open bowl to restore the salt that my body has lost. I change in silence – he conscientiously cleans the room and the equipment, wiping everything down carefully with disinfecting, and packing away his own toy box.
Out in the street we kiss briefly before heading off – he to his aging father, me to my flat. I eat soup, watch tv, exchange a brief, grateful text message, and sleep the sleep of the damned.
If you had asked me five years ago, whether I could imagine myself naked in a collar being thrashed by a stranger I would have changed the subject rapidly. Which is what friends do if you do mention it. For most of us this is not something you admit to or talk about publicly. The media is still full of individuals who are publicly shamed for this.
As well as sessions such as this, I sometimes go to events. What shocked me most at my first party was how suburban it was. I sat in a nice kitchen in the Inner West discussing the American elections, and watching a man stick a whole packet of needles in a woman's back, and carefully thread them with ribbon. Later at a big event, I was overwhelmed by a parade of people in leather or naked, dressed up or undressed. One man had his cock nailed to a breadboard; another pleaded with the woman beside me to kick his balls. I chatted to a nice physicist in woman’s wig who confessed that even as a small boy he had enjoyed being tied up.
But then I let myself go, shut my eyes and allowed myself to be paraded naked and publicly whipped. For the first time ever, I allowed my secret pride in my body to be on show. I soon realised that these events are actually full of people being themselves. Enormous girls wear the kinds of sexy clothing that only thin women wear in public; a timid man becomes a vamp; a woman dressed from the crown of her head to her toes in vinyl spins slowly on a rope. There are professors and nurses and solicitors and builders and shop assistants; we are tall and short, fat and thin, old and young. We chat about nothing much, and watch intently as a naked woman in high heels is gently and expertly entangled in an elaborate spiderweb. I wander off to get a nice cup of tea from behind the bar.
One man recognises the daughter of someone in his religious fellowship. She is more shocked than he is. Our rule is we don’t tell because we are all vulnerable. And when someone is outed, it is more likely to be the media or a disgruntled colleague than someone in the scene.
Like all areas of life there are politics and cliques. The original gay leatherpride mob are incensed by us heterosexual incomers, and is switching from being dominant to submissive really a sign of inauthenticity? We look down on the swingers, and the dress code rules are draconian – no effort no admittance. But there is also huge tolerance – apart from s**t, b********y and c***dren – anything goes. Informed, consensual fetishes are respected, however much you may personally dislike what someone else is doing.
Yes, there are ratbags. Online forums are both a risk and a safeguard. My two favourites are Fetlife for its a local component, and the British site Informed Consent because most of the people who post are funny, wise and literate, and it has a brilliant A-Z guide to every aspect of BDSM. I found this man on Fetlife – when I joined his was the only reply that asked about me (rather than tell me what he wanted to do to me). Before we did anything we met for coffee in a public place, I checked him out with other people on-line and I watched him with his friends at a party. There are always munches – usually a drink in a local pub where the weird and twisted BDSM group stand out from everyone else because they have a small mascot on the table.
Last night I worked with a man who has probably over the past couple of decades put in the 10,000 hours that anyone needs to truly master a craft. In my own private life, my boyfriend and I are making our own stumbling attempts to learn to do this. My strategy is to read everything I can on the internet; his is to watch it.
We have made our mistakes; he stormed off when I asked him not to hit my coccyx, and I can switch off in cold fury at a missed stroke. There are fights over where a stroke has landed (the sub is always right, whatever he says) and nights when nothing works. I tolerate far less from him than I do the other man – perhaps because he does not yet have the skill and does not read me as well., and perhaps because there is love involved we have a greater capacity to hurt and offend.
Our toybag is growing. We started with the pink fluffy joke hand cuffs from the sex shop, but now have a growing array of kit. The first whip was cheap and soon broke, and to be honest our leather flogger is pretty amateur. The fancy black sheets with the Velcro cuff attachments are not a great success, and the vibrating egg thing was silly and eats batteries. But run the new pin wheel with its five circles of evil spikes slowly and hard across my nipples and I explode. The solid steel anal toy is fun but at my age you worry about a prolapse; however the disgusting, the pink vibrator thing has now died, due to over use.
We have yet to give in and buy a proper mattress protector. Instead we rely on the large pile of towels by the bed to soak up the great fountains of gush that have become a regular feature of my love life. Our best acquisition has of course been the local version of the Hitachi wand – sold as a massager, if applied directly to a clitoris the deep, hard bass vibrations produce an instant climax on any occasion – it is the lazy man (and woman’s) ultimate sex toy.
I have also discovered the joy of enemas. They take practice. It has taken a while to live down the shame of squirting a professional mistress with an eyeful of bum juice. But since then I have learned that lying back in a hot bath, and emptying a bag full of warm water into me is deeply satisfying. And it means I can gush with impunity, without worrying about an additional accident. At a moment of intense orgasm when my body throws up a torrent of fluid, I have not the wit or skill to distinguish between the various muscles that make up my pelvic floor.
There have also been disasters. There was the fateful experiment with a coffee enema - I used real (hot) coffee and not the grounds, that left me with a singed twat and a bad case of the jitters. One day at the airport on a business trip, I learned that shaving your cunt is a mistake as a thousand biting ants crawled around my underpants. The epilator was no better – I got my inner labia caught in the rolling teeth. As a gesture to my beloved I decided to get my clitoral hood pierced. I don’t know what went wrong but for weeks I waddled around the office like John Wayne, trying to keep a straight face. It was not infected – the (kinky) doctor who did it diagnosed a recurrent clitoral hard-on as the source of the problem. I soon gave up. And then there was the time I gushed so hard that I wet the socks of the mistress who had just fisted me, despite her high leather boots.
In the process I have learnt so much about this aging body of mine. Despite some 35 years of sexual congress I did not know that I can gush – this was never in the high school sex film. I have learned that my body has a great range of sexual responses and that each is different – from the instant and electric flash nipple pain, to the deeper notes of anal sex. The excitement that comes from a whipped clitoris is different to the almost hysterical joy of that point where he finds the g spot inside my vagina. My former black and white sex life now glows in glorious technicolour.
The whole thing is also deeply selfish. Simple penetrative sex is nice – but to be honest, it lacks the depth of some of the alternative forms of pleasure. Often we let men fuck us out of gratitude and kindness.
The real irony of the whole situation is that in submitting to someone, and giving him total control over me and the license to hurt me, I am also more in control than I have ever been. Submitting gives me great pleasure – I am free of responsibility, and there are no obligations on me to please someone else. Internet posts often ask whether most men and women who are submissive have dominant and responsible jobs in real life. I am that cliché.
………………
I don’t know where next. I wonder whether this is a phase or will last for ever. I contemplate the possibility of bending over a zimmer frame rather than a large wooden cross, and wonder if the walls in a nursing home are thick enough to muffle the cries. The waterproof sheets will certainly come in handy.
But for now it is a voyage of personal pleasure and discovery. At the ripe old age of fifty something I have discovered a whole new aspect to myself. Was it always there? Who knows.
Meanwhile, the welts on my bottom are turning from pink to blue. There are red stripes on my breasts and a couple of marks on my thighs that he left just to annoy me. He knows I will have to cover them when I get changed at the swimming pool. This time there are no letters carved into my backside with the big hunting knife, and no broken skin to scab over and scar as a lasting reminder of the damage a large piece of two by four timber can inflict. But maybe I will get lucky next time.
*********
I thanked her for putting the time in to write this, I also told her that she should feel Proud that I filled her uterus with my Sperm, as I don't not do this with just any female. We have played since.
*******
It is an ordinary house in a city suburb. I am nervous. It is a while since I have done this. I miss the house, drive up and turn round. I hate driving in the dark. I have had a long week. Our budget is bad and we have been cutting staff. My head is running with the things I have not yet got to and will await me on Monday. Last week I failed my blood pressure test, and the doctor has told me to get more exercise. My shoulders are creeping up to my ears and there is nothing on the radio. I wonder why I am doing this.
When I finally find the house there is no bell. I ring and he comes out. An ordinary man in a striped shirt. He kisses me. Nervous? he asks.
I follow him in. Take off your clothes in there. I don’t yet. I want a shower. I am self-conscious and feel that I smell of stress and the day behind me. In the bathroom the plastic shower door is broken. I have let water flood the floor and search for a cloth to mop it up. And I am worried about my body. I have come from work and am not clean. With delight I find that the shower has one of those nozzles. I use it, and am then worried about hiding the evidence. I push stuff down the drain and then scrub and scrub my hands to remove the smell. I hope I have not blocked the drain.
I scoot past two people watching television and a brown kitchen. I take off my clothes and he says close your eyes. He leads through to the next room. I don’t open my eyes. I don’t want to see or know where I am. This is about me and my body and my sensations.
He is wrapping a bandage around my eyes. He ties it firmly and then tapes it, careful not to catch my hair.
Then there is the collar. A thick leather collar is buckled around my neck. He checks it is not too tight. The collar feels a little heavy and stiff. The leather on my own collar at home is as soft as butter from long wearing. But this is still a collar. I am naked and collared. I know my place.
He buckles cuffs onto my wrists and raises my arms, clipping them up high. I am naked, collared, blindfolded and stretched. It is cold and I shiver slightly. I wait.
A moment later he returns. He touches me and with a shock I realise he is naked. We haven’t done nude on nude he whispers and he is right. At other times there has been the faint sound of the leather he likes to wear, the rough cotton of a t shirt, against my skin.
But I know tonight that I am giving myself to him. He and I have no personal connection. He is not lover, husband or boyfriend but I trust him implicitly. I know that I am safe with him – that whatever happens tonight he can read the nuances of my body. He will not when to start and to stop, he will be able to tell genuine distress from the cries of no that mean yes. His pace and timing will be perfect,; he will conduct the orchestra of my pain and pleasure, drawing a symphony of sound and sensations out of me from different parts and different registers.
But for now I am still. Waiting. He circles my body and the hairs on my arms rise. Lightly he touches me. Strokes my nipples, touches my back. He bends down and gently bits the little place on my waist that he knows. He reaches around and touches my clitoris. I can feel my body following his every move. My breathing is beginning to rise. There is a jolt as my nipple is bitten by a clamp. I can tell these are not clover clamps, the horrible ones. As if sensing the challenge that this is not real pain he grabs my breasts and pummels them. The clamps begin to tighten and my body shudders involuntarily.
He is back around my body now – his nails graze the backs of my knees - he bites hard and I shriek, my body reverberating with the sensation. He circles me – touching, biting, grabbing my breasts. He gently slaps my cunt, faster and faster and again I shiver. Tremors run through my body like electric shocks.
Now there is something both soft and rough. He swats at my nipples, stroking hard downwards. And he spanks me – hard. The sting and the shock run through me.
I am out of condition. Sometimes if you have been doing this for a while, your hide is literally tanned - the skin on your bottom toughens up and you can take anything. But not tonight. My bottom is baby soft, and every blow stings. I writhe and pull away.
There is an art to being spanked, and this man knows it. There are four quadrants to each cheek. You must avoid the sciatic nerve and tailbone. Each quadrant has different sensations. And spanking works at different depths. There is the sharp sting of hand or paddle on skin, and the deeper reverberations ad a strong spank echoes around your pelvis – the sound waves bouncing off the back of your pubic bone. And as a good spanking builds up, starting slowly and moving faster, the sting on your skin is soon lost to a hypnotic deeper sense. There are so many other choices – flat or cupped hands, wooden paddle or hairbrush, hard spanks that go deep, or lighter sharp ones that bounce off your skin.
But that is enough spanking. He has something else – a tiny flogger. He whips and wraps it around my body – my nipple, back. Expertly he flips it between my legs, the sharp knots wrapping round to my lower body, the belly of the whip connecting hard between my legs. My body is torn – it is snapping at the sting of the knots at the same time as craving the feel of the leather against my cunt.
By now the floor is drenched. I have gushed. Gushing is one of the great conspiracies of the modern world; when women come they will – if stimulated in the right way – produce a great flood of clear fluid. Most doctors attribute this to incontinence, others the moistness of being turned on. There is a man on the internet who says he can make any woman gush; I believe him. I no longer have sex without a large stack of towels. Right now, the floor is dangerously slippery and I struggle to stand.
Now he stops and the pace changes. He has thrust something into my cunt and is moving it frantically. I have no idea what it is. But either way he knows exactly what he is doing. The sensation floods through me – its intensity is almost too much to bear. My body is no longer my own and it judders uncontrollably, but what ever I do he wont stop.
I don’t understand the female orgasm. Tonight I wont come once or twice. Instead my body responds to each new outrage in different ways. At first there will be waves as the tension of the day flows out of me. Later they will build in intensity as the wave become deeper and stronger reaching into my inner core. Coming is not something discrete – it is a background to the evening – as each new thing he does finds new depths and reserves of pleasure. These are sets of waves in an ocean – they will happen regularly through the night. But some will be dumpers, and leave me tumbling and disorientated – and I will need to lie still on the sand to recover. Others I will catch, surfing them to the shore as we move from one sensation to the next.
But now he wont stop – the sensation in my cunt is overwhelming, and I literally cant bear the pleasure. I plead within him to stop – this is far worse than pain. By now he has unclipped my wrists – my crumbling shoulders wont take it – and I am free to fall forward onto the bench in front of me. I lie still. My mind is blank and I sink exhausted onto the vinyl.
He wont let me stop. He stands me up and pulls me back by my hair. He has what feels like cane. He pushes me forward so that my hands are on the bench and my breasts hand down. He swats my nipples rapidly with the cane then reaches down between my legs with a battery of rapid strikes. It is not hard but fast and soon the pleasure is rising in me again and I write away from him. As if sensing that I am having too much fun he pushes me down against the bench.
Pick a number between 25 and 40 he commands. This is his way of telling me I have choices but they are limited. Our language is that of slave and master. I call him master as a gift and a sign that I trust him, that I am giving myself to him – and for me it symbolises the surrender of my body.
I pick 32. He has set me a challenge and I must meet it. I am competitive. I ad mit it. I like to win and to show off. I will meet the challenge he sets me. The first few stroke hurt but I count them – one to seven. And then he pauses.
‘Six of the best’ is more than a turn of phrase. Whether it is a cane, tawse or whip – however hard it is, - I have learnt that I can manage about six before I have to stop and pause. And if they really hurt , a pause followed by a gentle spanking will restore equilibrium to the most outraged nether regions.
But now we go straight onto the next seven. He is actually being gentle tonight. The strokes hurt but not enough to throw me. We have played together before many times. On other evenings and other times he has gone in harder – sharp cane strokes that shock and surprise – whippings that get harder until the delirium of endorphins kick in and you float high in the sky. Sessions that leave deep marks for several weeks.
By stroke number 26 I am lulled into complacency – a slight sense of triumph. I can do this I think, but the last four are mean – the last stroke so hard that I am shocked for a millisecond until the pleasure flows, and again I judder and shake
From there on it is relentless. He plays with me like a wilful c***d with a doll. Sometimes biting and kissing, sometimes pain, moving from the faintest touch to searing agony. Because I cant see anything every other sense is alert – where is he? What will come next? The pauses of mixed apprehension and anticipation, the waves of pain and please.
Lean forward and don’t move he says, as I brace myself against the bench. My guess is correct, and the impact is sudden and hard. My body immediately relaxes – this is my favorite, and his. I am judging that this is the big flogger – custom made for him by an expert craftsman and perfectly weighted so that it will balance on a finger tip. The handle heavy and the threads long beautiful leather.
This is his real skill. I call him the master flogger. Each stroke lands beautifully in the centre of my bottom. The perfect twist of his wrist at the right moment means that the ends land together; no stray pieces wrap around my hip and onto my stomach. Like a good athlete he has used his core body strength; and the blow flows smoothly through the flogger from his body to mine. Although each stroke is hard – like being hit by a bus – I relax into it. I literally want to sleep; each rhythmic stroke takes me down a step, down towards a deep green pool of relaxation.
Sometimes in a more lucid moment – and certainly not tonight – I ponder the fundamental dichotomy of bdsm – the dividing line between pleasure and cruelty. Whips, flogging, pain are all abhorrent as forms of torture, whether in the history of AUstralia or in our own time – I am appalled by the photographs of the blind folded man at Abu Ghraib. But that has no more connection to what I am doing now, than **** has to loving sex, or National Socialism had to a just and caring society. I can’t read about a convict flogging, but gain deep joy from my own.
The key difference is of course informed consent. The title of my favourite online bdsm web site, but also a very fundamental principle. Each word matters. The difference between **** and pleasure is of course consent, and the fundamental basis of and rule of all good BDSM is consent. The other word is ‘informed’; I give my consent to this man to do this to me, but both he and I know what we are doing. Yes, he is an expert – and has spent many years learning how to do this, but even for a novice knowing the basic rules matter. For him being informed means knowing how, when and where to hit; he knows and loves his equipment; he observes rules on safety and limits. He knows how to read me and my body and can tell the difference between pain that gives pleasure and pain that does not. He knows to watch for that dangerous place where I think I can take anything and I cant.
For me being informed means knowing that I can trust my partner if I put myself in his hands. It means knowing what he is going to do to me and accepting that he will hurt me. It means taking responsibility for myself and making it clear when I am not happy or it is not working. It means accepting rules and safety requirements.
Why did Jesus die on the cross? He did not use the safe word. A lot of people use safe words to signal distress. Typically they will be something like the word red or something you cant forget – like your name, rather than the word ‘no’ which does not always mean what it says. With someone as good as this man, you don’t need a safeword,
It is time to lie on the bench. Off my feet and finally lying down I feel my body let go. I explode as the pent up tension I have held in check flows out of me in great rivers of joy – I turn on my side and give into it until the tidal wave ebbs, and I lie exhausted.
He pulls me over roughly and spreads my legs. Something sharp strikes my clit and I shriek. It happens over and over again. Qantas, I ask? It is one of those mean little coffee stirrers, and the spring and domed end are just enough to do damage.
Now lie still and don’t move. I tense. I can hear the snap of gloves and the slick noise of lube. He spreads my legs and starts to work on me – his fingers pushing insistently into me, harder and harder. I am beginning to stretch. This is more than one finger, and my body rebels. Relax, he demands. I am afraid. I cant take it – it wont fit. I am filled with the same panic and joy as I felt when giving birth. That great head descends and fills you and you are convinced that you will split asunder. His knuckles are insistent, and my body wavers between wanting to pull him deep inside me, and that feeling that He pauses. I can no longer tell what is happening but I know that I am teetering on the edge of reason; he must have pulled back as he is playing again and again with that deep g spot, but he teases me – I am up to my elbow he says.
Fisting is – like much of this – new to me. The first time it happened I thought I would die. I was at the Salon – my arms and feet clipped to four chains, my body half hanging out of a leather sling. A woman pushed her whole hand inside me and I somersaulted, tumbling through space until my body arced , throwing her back and nearly removing several teeth.
Tonight it is enough and I have to stop. His hand is large and I am overwhelmed. Or so I thought until he begins to work on my bottom. Something is inside me – it is not big but moves insistently and rapidly. My voice starts somewhere in the alto register, but soon he draws deep bass a****l notes out of me. I can’t explain the deep and utter joy of anal sex; it bears no relationship to vaginal penetration. I sometimes wonder if the word fundamental was always meant to have two meanings - my whole being rocks with deep, reverberating pleasure. Even without the hesitation, tightness and gradual opening up of full anal sex, that both frightens and thrills me, he is still finding my deepest point of joy.
One more I throw him off and away as I dive into my own delight, flailing and thrashing until I gradually slow and stop.
A gay man once said that you have never experienced sex until you have had it in a sling. Suspended from your arms and legs, your body is free to arc and wrench in space until you are flying with joy. Tonight there is no sling. Instead I am pulled roughly to my feet. And told to stand there. I can barely stand – I sway slightly and have to lock my hips to stay upright.
He clips my two cuffs together, and threads what sounds like a chain from a ring on my collar through the cuffs, and then takes the end like a leash. We are going outside, he says, I am going to tie you to a tree in the street.
I follow. I have no choice. The door closes behind me and I shuffle towards the step, and through the leaves in the yard. There are voices in the street. He spins me round and round and I hear the front gate open. Forward he says. Remember you are naked and so am I, but they cant see me – I am behind you.
Kneel. I can feel the concrete of the pavement. And suck. This is a step further than we have ever gone in perhaps a dozen sessions. But tonight I consciously gave myself to him. Although nothing has been said we both knew from the outset that I would if asked. He bends me over and takes me. Oddly it is the least pleasurable part of the evening, but this is for him, not me. This is my thanks to the man who has spent the better part of two hours exploring every part of my body, and drawing more out of me than I thought possible. It has been, until now, my night.
He stands me up and I shuffle forward. My sense of direction is not that bad. I know that the leaves under my feet are actually those by the front step, and we are still in the walled yard. But I let myself not be sure – and that has been part of the game.
Back in the house we are quiet. He unclips my wrists, takes off the collar and finally unwinds the bandage. We are two ordinary people, in a bright room, surrounded by an odd array of equipment. I head for the shower and let the hot water flow over me. I am calm and happy. In the kitchen a sneak a crisp from an open bowl to restore the salt that my body has lost. I change in silence – he conscientiously cleans the room and the equipment, wiping everything down carefully with disinfecting, and packing away his own toy box.
Out in the street we kiss briefly before heading off – he to his aging father, me to my flat. I eat soup, watch tv, exchange a brief, grateful text message, and sleep the sleep of the damned.
If you had asked me five years ago, whether I could imagine myself naked in a collar being thrashed by a stranger I would have changed the subject rapidly. Which is what friends do if you do mention it. For most of us this is not something you admit to or talk about publicly. The media is still full of individuals who are publicly shamed for this.
As well as sessions such as this, I sometimes go to events. What shocked me most at my first party was how suburban it was. I sat in a nice kitchen in the Inner West discussing the American elections, and watching a man stick a whole packet of needles in a woman's back, and carefully thread them with ribbon. Later at a big event, I was overwhelmed by a parade of people in leather or naked, dressed up or undressed. One man had his cock nailed to a breadboard; another pleaded with the woman beside me to kick his balls. I chatted to a nice physicist in woman’s wig who confessed that even as a small boy he had enjoyed being tied up.
But then I let myself go, shut my eyes and allowed myself to be paraded naked and publicly whipped. For the first time ever, I allowed my secret pride in my body to be on show. I soon realised that these events are actually full of people being themselves. Enormous girls wear the kinds of sexy clothing that only thin women wear in public; a timid man becomes a vamp; a woman dressed from the crown of her head to her toes in vinyl spins slowly on a rope. There are professors and nurses and solicitors and builders and shop assistants; we are tall and short, fat and thin, old and young. We chat about nothing much, and watch intently as a naked woman in high heels is gently and expertly entangled in an elaborate spiderweb. I wander off to get a nice cup of tea from behind the bar.
One man recognises the daughter of someone in his religious fellowship. She is more shocked than he is. Our rule is we don’t tell because we are all vulnerable. And when someone is outed, it is more likely to be the media or a disgruntled colleague than someone in the scene.
Like all areas of life there are politics and cliques. The original gay leatherpride mob are incensed by us heterosexual incomers, and is switching from being dominant to submissive really a sign of inauthenticity? We look down on the swingers, and the dress code rules are draconian – no effort no admittance. But there is also huge tolerance – apart from s**t, b********y and c***dren – anything goes. Informed, consensual fetishes are respected, however much you may personally dislike what someone else is doing.
Yes, there are ratbags. Online forums are both a risk and a safeguard. My two favourites are Fetlife for its a local component, and the British site Informed Consent because most of the people who post are funny, wise and literate, and it has a brilliant A-Z guide to every aspect of BDSM. I found this man on Fetlife – when I joined his was the only reply that asked about me (rather than tell me what he wanted to do to me). Before we did anything we met for coffee in a public place, I checked him out with other people on-line and I watched him with his friends at a party. There are always munches – usually a drink in a local pub where the weird and twisted BDSM group stand out from everyone else because they have a small mascot on the table.
Last night I worked with a man who has probably over the past couple of decades put in the 10,000 hours that anyone needs to truly master a craft. In my own private life, my boyfriend and I are making our own stumbling attempts to learn to do this. My strategy is to read everything I can on the internet; his is to watch it.
We have made our mistakes; he stormed off when I asked him not to hit my coccyx, and I can switch off in cold fury at a missed stroke. There are fights over where a stroke has landed (the sub is always right, whatever he says) and nights when nothing works. I tolerate far less from him than I do the other man – perhaps because he does not yet have the skill and does not read me as well., and perhaps because there is love involved we have a greater capacity to hurt and offend.
Our toybag is growing. We started with the pink fluffy joke hand cuffs from the sex shop, but now have a growing array of kit. The first whip was cheap and soon broke, and to be honest our leather flogger is pretty amateur. The fancy black sheets with the Velcro cuff attachments are not a great success, and the vibrating egg thing was silly and eats batteries. But run the new pin wheel with its five circles of evil spikes slowly and hard across my nipples and I explode. The solid steel anal toy is fun but at my age you worry about a prolapse; however the disgusting, the pink vibrator thing has now died, due to over use.
We have yet to give in and buy a proper mattress protector. Instead we rely on the large pile of towels by the bed to soak up the great fountains of gush that have become a regular feature of my love life. Our best acquisition has of course been the local version of the Hitachi wand – sold as a massager, if applied directly to a clitoris the deep, hard bass vibrations produce an instant climax on any occasion – it is the lazy man (and woman’s) ultimate sex toy.
I have also discovered the joy of enemas. They take practice. It has taken a while to live down the shame of squirting a professional mistress with an eyeful of bum juice. But since then I have learned that lying back in a hot bath, and emptying a bag full of warm water into me is deeply satisfying. And it means I can gush with impunity, without worrying about an additional accident. At a moment of intense orgasm when my body throws up a torrent of fluid, I have not the wit or skill to distinguish between the various muscles that make up my pelvic floor.
There have also been disasters. There was the fateful experiment with a coffee enema - I used real (hot) coffee and not the grounds, that left me with a singed twat and a bad case of the jitters. One day at the airport on a business trip, I learned that shaving your cunt is a mistake as a thousand biting ants crawled around my underpants. The epilator was no better – I got my inner labia caught in the rolling teeth. As a gesture to my beloved I decided to get my clitoral hood pierced. I don’t know what went wrong but for weeks I waddled around the office like John Wayne, trying to keep a straight face. It was not infected – the (kinky) doctor who did it diagnosed a recurrent clitoral hard-on as the source of the problem. I soon gave up. And then there was the time I gushed so hard that I wet the socks of the mistress who had just fisted me, despite her high leather boots.
In the process I have learnt so much about this aging body of mine. Despite some 35 years of sexual congress I did not know that I can gush – this was never in the high school sex film. I have learned that my body has a great range of sexual responses and that each is different – from the instant and electric flash nipple pain, to the deeper notes of anal sex. The excitement that comes from a whipped clitoris is different to the almost hysterical joy of that point where he finds the g spot inside my vagina. My former black and white sex life now glows in glorious technicolour.
The whole thing is also deeply selfish. Simple penetrative sex is nice – but to be honest, it lacks the depth of some of the alternative forms of pleasure. Often we let men fuck us out of gratitude and kindness.
The real irony of the whole situation is that in submitting to someone, and giving him total control over me and the license to hurt me, I am also more in control than I have ever been. Submitting gives me great pleasure – I am free of responsibility, and there are no obligations on me to please someone else. Internet posts often ask whether most men and women who are submissive have dominant and responsible jobs in real life. I am that cliché.
………………
I don’t know where next. I wonder whether this is a phase or will last for ever. I contemplate the possibility of bending over a zimmer frame rather than a large wooden cross, and wonder if the walls in a nursing home are thick enough to muffle the cries. The waterproof sheets will certainly come in handy.
But for now it is a voyage of personal pleasure and discovery. At the ripe old age of fifty something I have discovered a whole new aspect to myself. Was it always there? Who knows.
Meanwhile, the welts on my bottom are turning from pink to blue. There are red stripes on my breasts and a couple of marks on my thighs that he left just to annoy me. He knows I will have to cover them when I get changed at the swimming pool. This time there are no letters carved into my backside with the big hunting knife, and no broken skin to scab over and scar as a lasting reminder of the damage a large piece of two by four timber can inflict. But maybe I will get lucky next time.
*********
I thanked her for putting the time in to write this, I also told her that she should feel Proud that I filled her uterus with my Sperm, as I don't not do this with just any female. We have played since.
Lauryn
- 26.12.2022
- 24
- 0
