Here is an excellent piece of writing by one of my lovely clients based on our recent session – it’s a little different to a testimonial so I thought it worthy of a blog!
I was quite naked, my clothes piled neatly as instructed, and on my hands and knees. I felt the coolness of the wooden floor of the dungeon as I pressed my face close to the oak boards in obeisance to Mistress. Slowly, deliberately, the steps moved around me as I felt myself falling deeper and deeper beneath her power.
At almost a foot taller than Mistress and twice her weight I would be more than a match for her slight, albeit athletic frame. But this wasn’t about physicality at all, her mind had already taken mine prisoner. I was under her total control now just as surely as if the bonds were already in place.
” Give me your wrists”.
The command was curt and allowed no latitude for negotiation. I raised my hands from the floor and offered them to her as she approached me. A pair of heavy black leather cuffs soon encircled my wrists before me. She checked them and tightened one a further notch.
Now she passed the chains through her hands, lowering the steel hook of the overhead hoist from the ceiling, deftly linking my cuffed wrists together with a steel hasp which she slipped through the eye. I took this fleeting opportunity to admire her petite body. Long, slim legs in tight fitting black leather jeans worn beneath the most amazing pair of boots that reached to the knee, adorned with both buckles and laces and deliciously long, tapered stiletto heels. A wide laced leather corset and a crisp black blouse completed her outfit.
The chains rattled briefly once more as the hoist raised my wrists high above my head until my body was fully stretched. Now she stood before me, like a triumphant huntress, looking directly into my eyes. Her neat auburn bob framed her face, her expression inscrutable. I studied her immaculately made up green-grey eyes for clues as to her thoughts only to become lost like a drowning man in their limpid profundity. That there was cruelty there I had no doubt, but it was a cruelty that I yearned for every bit as strongly as a man lost in a desert desires water.
She stood before the wall rack with it’s selection of single tailed whips, deciding which particular one might suit her purpose today. My eyes followed every facet of her neat, slim body. I admired especially the manner in which the black leather clung to her so tightly, the reflected light dancing in a myriad mobile pools that altered with every movement. Her hand eventually alighted on one particular whip. She picked it up and trailed the thin strand of neatly plaited leather through her slim, almost delicate fingers. Her decision made she now moved away out of my sight.
” I seem to recall that you liked the singletail didn’t you?” The observation is made as she teases out the slim lash and takes up her position behind me, the instrument of my punishment gripped in her hand, ready to strike.
“Yes Mistress”. I hear myself say. “Like” is perhaps not exactly the word I would use, but we do understand one another perfectly. She knows me as well as I know myself. My purpose here is to serve, to suffer, and through my suffering hopefully bring about some degree of mutual pleasure.
The harbinger of the first stroke is a low, quiet whistle as the leather tip of the whip parts the air. This whistle intensifies as the tail gathers speed, culminating with it’s impact with the flesh of my upper back. For a brief fraction of a second there is silence. Then the signal reaches my brain. I try unsuccessfully to prevent a little cry as my whole body jolts as the pain now grows towards it’s crescendo. More strokes follow, their intensity building as I hang in the cuffs, a tsunami of pain breaks over me as Mistress gets into her stride.
Her ministrations bring a series of low groans from me as her whip criss crosses my back. The pain surrounds and submerses me in it’s cruel embrace but now I have but one thought, I only want my suffering to bring her pleasure, I am prepared to endure whatever is necessary to achieve that end. It is a natural symbiosis that exists between a sadist and a masochist.
She replaces the singletail and lowers the hook of the hoist before releasing me. Pointing to the leather upholstered kneeling bench she says, “Please be kind enough to take your place on there”. Her politeness in the request in no way permits an sort of equivocal answer. I comply immediately. My legs are secured by a pair of broad leather straps. Another around my waist is more like a belt, pulling me down tightly to the bench.
Mistress walks to the cane rack. We both know that the cane is my nemesis. The pain generated by such an implement in expert hands is of a different scale from most other punishment methods. She also knows my fear of the cane and, good sadist that she is she will exploit that fear without recourse to pity. In fact it is that knowledge of the fear that it Instills that now motivates her as she stands before the rack, pondering her selection.
She chooses one, flexing it briefly between outstretched hands before swishing it through the air several times, the sound heightens the fear growing within me as she now moves to stand alongside the bench, long booted legs parted to give her the stability she requires to deliver her punishment effectively. “You will receive twelve strokes”. I feel the tip of the cane as it rests gently on my right buttock.
Mistress taps it a couple of times, getting her range. When the first stroke comes the whistle of the falling cane is followed by an explosion of pain. My body bucks against the restraints. Muscle and bone against steel and leather, there can only be one victor in this contest of unequals. My cry of shock and pain is greeted by her own reply, a short laugh of joyful amusement as she prepares for the second stroke. Thus manifestation of her enjoyment will serve to sustain me through this ordeal.
And in this way we slowly progress through the twelve. Each stroke punctuated by a pause for each of us to savour in our different ways the act of submission, the sublime tilt of the power see-saw, myself down on the floor, Mistress high and haughty.
Now relieved that my “sentence” has reached it’s conclusion I relax as the sting of the strokes begins to fade. Mistress continues to hold the cane in her hand. She asks me to grade the caning on a scale of one to ten according to it’s severity. I decide upon an eight. “I think that you should have a final three”. The implication is that these will be harder. It would be futile to argue, if I do the tariff will most likely be doubled.
Once more the cane tip rests on my buttock. This time it’s whistle is louder, higher pitched, and I squeal in reaction to the impact before steeling myself for the penultimate stroke. When that is delivered I concentrate my mind on the final one. It is unspoken but the implication is that this will be the hardest of all, a natural progression. When it comes the severity is tempered by the knowledge that my ordeal is at an end.
I am released from the bench and, almost as a reward, I am allowed to grovel at Mistress’ feet. To worship and to kiss those superb boots of fine Italian leather with their stiletto heels, laces and straps that adorn her long, slim legs. If there exists a heaven then I imagine that it is very much like this.
Downstairs I sip my coffee and our conversation wanders far and wide. When I leave I get into my car for the journey home. A song plays on the radio as I join the motorway. “On days like these”. The pain has transmuted via some magic alchemy into a warm endorphin fuelled glow, indeed, days like these.