A hotel room. A man lies on the bed, naked, waiting.
A woman walks in. She removes a cane from her bag. She beats him with it. Hard. She leaves.
There is no contact other than the cane. No words are spoken.
I have no idea where this fantasy comes from but it has been with me for years. Perhaps I was drawn to the notion of stripping everything down, so all that is left is me, the mistress and the cane. It is perhaps the BDSM equivalent of the “Zipless Fuck”, an idea popular in erotic literature years ago. They meet, they fuck, they part; it’s not a complicated story. I turned the fantasy around into a male on female spanking scene in my first attempt at an erotic short story. In the story a woman agrees to a meeting in a hotel. She strips, bends over a chair and waits. A man walks in, spanks her hard and leaves. I know from the subsequent correspondence that I was far from the only person, male or female, stimulated by this idea.
When I asked Mistress Elita if she would play out this scene with me she found the idea really hot. This was, in itself, reassuring as I had wondered if she might find the notion too strange. Most good Mistresses would regard the mental domination of the submissive, through both their body language and their words, to be an important part of any session. In this session I would neither see her nor hear her so half of the tools of her trade would be unavailable.
The hotel room was not large but it was modern, stylishly decorated and had a large, centrally positioned bed. Having checked in, and made arrangements for Elita to collect a key from reception, I showered, positioned some pillows in the centre of the bed and lay across them. Here is how the next 30 minutes or so felt to me at the time:
After rushing to get to the train and then to the hotel it is good to lie down. My breathing slows, my pulse rate steadies. I wait, feeling calm and prepared. Yes, I am nervous but my nervousness is expected, welcome even. This sense of anticipation and heightened awareness is part of the excitement of a BDSM session for me. I can just make out the traffic sounds coming from the street below. Ten minutes pass, maybe fifteen.
My body responds as soon as her key card clicks in the door, sending a surge of adrenaline through my veins. I can feel its effect instantly as my pulse rate spikes. I hear the click of her heels; her coat and bag being placed on a chair; a zip; some implements placed on the bed beside me. This is it. This is why I am here. I just hope I am ready.
A crop. I recognise the bite of the shaft, the sting of its end. Ten strokes, twenty. Light at first, then harder, first from one side then the click, click, click of her heels as she walks round the bed, then from the other. With no warm up, the pain is sharp and demanding and I feel less ready for the cane. This, after all, IS the warm up. More strokes, now from a flogger. I start to enjoy the sensations and the feeling of being able to concentrate on them. The mental clutter of a busy day falls away to leave just myself, Elita’s strong yet unseen presence, and the bite of the whip.
The first cane stroke comes with little warning, a flash of deep pain that takes my breath away, quickly followed by another. Steady strokes at first, then faster, lighter strokes, then harder and more demanding. She varies the pace and intensity so I never feel I can relax. With no number of strokes to aim for I have no idea if we are just starting, half way through or nearly finished. My breathing becomes ragged as I grip the bed, desperately trying to process the intensity of the pain and stay on top of it. I lift myself up in response to a particularly hard blow but she pushes me back down onto the pillows. She stops. I breath deeply, feeling we are not yet done.
A heavy stroke, then another. Has she changed canes or is she swinging with her full arm rather than her wrist? It hurts. A lot. A sharp, involuntary intake of breath then let it out more slowly. Then again with the next impact. This is the most intense part of the beating but for the first time I feel myself settle into a rhythm. Strike; breathe into the pain; let the breath out. By concentrating on my breathing I can control my reactions. This is extreme yet I know I can cope with six of these. She gives me ten. Then ten from the other side. Somehow I am still there at the end, breathing hard, almost gasping. So immersed in the pain that there is nothing else. I am totally engaged by it.
Then the click, click, click of her heels as she walks round the room, picks up her coat and leaves. Silence. A beautiful, floating subspace calm. A huge shudder runs through me, briefly taking me over. I don’t fight it but relax into my body’s response to the extreme sensations it has experienced. My breathing slows as the remote noise of the London traffic returns.
The experience had been primal, visceral, raw and unbelievably intense. Familiar feelings and responses had been somehow amplified by the utter lack of physical or verbal communication; by my ability to concentrate one hundred percent of my attention on the sensations. It had been quite different from a normal session.
I slowly stood up off the bed, trying my best to collect and centre myself. I dressed carefully and took the lift down to join her for dinner.
Mistress Elita was kind enough to send me this description of our meeting from her, very different, perspective. I find her perspective fascinating, especially her experience of the intensity of the session.
When asked if I would be willing to give a caning with no words being spoken either before, during or after, I immediately felt excited; albeit with a little splash of uncertainty lurking in the back of my brain. I usually rely heavily on spoken word to inform the actions I take within a session and so having this type of communication taken away would present a challenge for me as the Domme.
I arrived and, as expected, he was lying on the bed and I began to hurt him with my cane. Relying entirely on my instincts to determine when enough was enough (or indeed when enough was not enough), I felt my sadistic side threatening to take over entirely. As I kept going, stroke after stroke, an energy came over me and I pushed further and further, until I was satisfied that we were finished.
Putting on my coat and leaving the room, I was shivering with adrenaline. The ‘closure’ I usually get from speaking with (and sometimes comforting) my sub post-punishment was not there. Instead, that heady rush that comes with an intense scene stayed with me virtually all evening. Now? I just want to do it all over again.
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We will, Mistress.
We will.