Sometimes a session will follow a set plan, carefully thought out beforehand, perhaps even written down. Sometimes a session will just evolve, the Mistress letting it develop its own rhythm in response to how she feels and to the reactions of her submissive. My last session with Mistress Elita was most definitely the latter type. I arrived expecting corporal punishment but what happened, while just as testing, was something else entirely.
The day before Elita had asked if I was OK with bruising, a question that will always cause a jump in heart rate. When I was just across the road from her place, well past the point of no return, she sent this text:
“I’m in a very particular kind of mood so if it gets too much, you must say”
Possibly the scariest text I ever received. I was actually shaking when I knocked on her door, convinced I was in for a beating with at least a cane and, quite possibly, her new single-tail bull whip. I expected this to start within 30 seconds of me entering the room. (Once she knows you, Elita is not one for cosy pre-session chats). A cold beating, delivered at the start of a session with no warm up, is very hard to deal with. Yet after only half a dozen cane strokes and the briefest of introductions to her new whip I was being untied. My feelings at this point could be characterised as part relief (I wasn’t in for a thrashing), part disappointment (I wasn’t in for a thrashing – I’m just wired that way) and part concerned that her ‘very particular kind of mood’ had clearly yet to work itself out.
She could have been planning anything; literally anything.
Here’s how I experienced the next hour:
She piles cushions on the bed. So the beating is going to be in here – she wants me lying down, perhaps so she can swing it harder. Shit – this is going to be brutal. But No! She ties me face up, my core raised on the cushions. Ropes round my thighs keep my legs apart, leaving me feeling vulnerable and exposed. The blindfold accentuates the fear and dislocation.
Clips; for just long enough to make my nipples really sensitive then unexpected blows with a crop. Right on the end of my nipples. She has my attention.
Balls tied tightly, throbbing. Spikes of pain from clips on my already stretched scrotum. Steel ring round my cock connected to an electric device. Throbbing. I’m breathing fast now, trying to soak it all up. She grabs my cock, pulling hard. At first this is sensual then it becomes just another source of pain. Wanking as a weapon. While she’s working with her hand I can barely feel the electricity but every time she lets go, the throbbing returns, making me arch my back. It’s all happening at once and it’s hard to process.
I feel her straddle me, pressing her weight painfully on my tightly bound cock and balls as she takes the nipple clips off, only to use her teeth to bite my nipples hard. I can’t see her but I feel how close she is, her body against mine. I push up, wanting her to bite me harder, needing the temporary intimacy, the connection.
She’s back at the other end of the bed. Same things but more extreme, scratching my balls, more electricity, harder wanking. Then back up, biting my nipples again. Cycle after cycle after cycle, raising the pain level each time. My reactions get stronger, moaning in pain, constantly fighting it. I can sense her feeding off my pain, the sadist in her drinking it up, like a vampire drinking a victim’s blood. She seems to have a visceral need for me to suffer. This is what her ‘very particular kind of mood’ is demanding and I love that I’m giving it to her. My total immersion in the physical is intoxicating.
A brief respite. A dribble of cold wine into my mouth. I’m pathetically grateful.
Now she has new clips; applies one to my left nipple. I lose control as a knife of pain plunges deep into my chest driving out all other sensations. My world is immediately reduced to the few millimetres of flesh and the waves of pain coming from it. I’m drowning in pain, desperately grabbing at it, trying to haul myself back to the surface. I sense her watching my response, gauging it. She leaves the clip on but doesn’t apply the second, recognising (and I love that she knows this) that I am now at my absolute limit, my reserves all gone. I eventually realise that she has been working on my cock again, the sensations somehow finding a path through the pain. I feel the beginnings of an orgasm, which makes no sense at all because I can’t possibly orgasm in the middle of this much pain.
Yet I do orgasm; not just orgasm but explode in a shuddering cry of pain and release that convulses my whole body again and again, leaving me drained and shaking; curled up inside myself; lost.
I have sessioned with Mistresses who, at this point, would immediately have jumped up and started fussing around with tissues, all brusque end-of-session detachment and efficiency. But Elita knew how important this moment was and she sat next to me, touching me lightly and watching the tremmors running through me as my extended whole-body orgasm ran it’s course. It was a moment of tenderness, care and understanding. Although I felt completely vulnerable and raw I also felt safe and cared for in a way that seemed incredibly important at the time.
Afterwards we had a drink together while I started the journey back to earth. Elita told me her early plan had gone out of the window as she had become immersed in what she was doing, pushing me into sensory overload with nipple torture, CBT and electrics for the best part of an hour.
She had got a lot out of the session, she said, and felt much better for having worked off her ‘very particular kind of mood’.
I felt better too.
In fact I still do.
After the session was over Elita had to remove the superstrong nipple clip. Given the hyper-sensitity of my poor nipple, this was always going to be horrible. However it was worse than that. She still had some lube on her hand so, no sooner had she removed the clip when it slipped out of her fingers and snapped back on. Having already used the ‘knife in the chest’ language I am left with no words to describe this amount of pain. What I will say is this: should I ever again be offered the opportunity to watch Elita being caned, this is the memory that will make it OK for me to accept!