By | 16th September 2016

I recently read some posts from @Ferns_  a lifestyle Domme who writes explosively about her real and fantasized relationships. I find her writing thrillingly intense and it can trigger dark reciprocal fantasies. Anyone who can write this: “God, you are so beautiful, I want to tear you to pieces” is peddling strong medicine.

That phrase comes from a piece she titles Fucking Bitch. She has been separated from her submissive boy, and the writing centres on how she feels and what she does to him when he walks through her door.

Her passion for him drives her aching need to destroy him

His passion for her drives his aching need to be destroyed

It is described with a visceral intensity, as she grabs him by the throat, slams him against the wall and slaps his face repeatedly, not from anger but from love and passion. She’s “sucking and biting at him like a source of food” while he’s “wanting to be hurt, aching for it, reaching for it.”

When I first read this I was hit with an unexpected, yet very real, desire to be in his place. I understood immediately how intense that would be for me, as fear and lust, pain and passion tumble over each other in a desperate struggle to dominate his thoughts. Fear, lust and pain I can, and frequently do, buy by the hour, but passion? Passion is not on the ‘sessions’ menu of any mistress I’ve met.  It would probably be between ‘Pantyhose Worship’ and ‘Public Humiliation” but it isn’t. Ever.

Ferns had written a strong scene, with its sudden physical assault rocking him back on his heels, wide eyed in fear and shock, but it is the overlay of strong emotions that really lifts it to be something more. If passion wasn’t available, how else might I add some of its visceral, gut-felt, intensity to a session with Mistress Elita? I wondered if anger might add the hot spice of deep emotion to the more superficial ingredients of fear, lust and pain.

With that thought I had planted the seeds of my own destruction and, boy, how they grew!

Two days before we were due to meet I summoned up some courage (or at least foolhardiness) and sent this email to Elita, referring to an earlier session where she had been caned,

I can’t wait to see your naked arse on Tuesday so I can picture you getting caned again and squealing like a baby. Maybe Ill give you a good hard spanking myself!

I followed it up the following day with this:

I’m liking the idea of spanking your arse. Sure you can cane me a bit if you want but if he couldn’t break me, you’re certainly not going to.

And finally, an hour before the meeting I wrote her a text so insulting to her abilities as a Domme, I can’t even bring myself repeat it here. I sat on the train, the text unsent, for maybe 20 minutes, heart pounding from fear of the consequences of what I was about to do. But I was now too far down the rabbit hole, so I sent it.

This was her reply:

hornets text 3
Like a deer, immobile in front of the onrushing headlights, unable to save itself, I sent a single-word reply: “Whatever.”
I have never felt such dread before a session as I felt standing at her door; sick with an all-embracing, visceral panic. I knew I had gone too far and was horrified that, through my unthinking stupidity, I might lose a relationship that had become important to me. I knew what was coming up was no longer BDSM play; what was coming up was outrage, fury and, retribution; retribution on a scale I could not even imagine.
Yet still I knocked on her door, waiting for the white heat of her anger.
No heat, no shouting. This is a cold fury that has no words. I haven’t got my  jacket off before she’s slapping my face, hard, one side then the other, again and again. I want to tell her I’m sorry but I can’t get the words out while she is slapping my face.

“Strip, then get in there, you miserable shit”.

Tied to a chair. A light pillowcase comes over my head. It doesn’t lessen the hurt but I can’t see the blows coming, can’t anticipate, my normal connection to her lost. Slap, slap, slap; explosions in my cheeks, in my whole face. Her palm, the back of her hand. Blow after blow, head jerking from side to side as she hits me

Now pushed over the chair. The cane, not the normal cane; longer heavier. No warm up. Full swing. AAAhhh! Again, Again. The next one low down, then another. Pause at six, then again, harder, six more. I cry out with each blow. Now six fast strokes, no pause, no time to control my responses. Blows landing on top of one another; pain piled on agonizing pain. I’m frightened by her anger and the cold intensity of the beating.

Still she isn’t finished. Takes her time with the last six, lining each one up, lifting the cane, turning her whole body. She focuses. Steadies her breathing then unwinds as hard as she can into my backside. Agony. Deep, deep pain. Gasping. Sweating with the effort to stay over the chair; the effort to carry on.

This is punishment. This is retribution. I want it. I need it. I need her to take me apart to make it OK between us again. So I take them all.

She could have been stabbing rusty knives into my backside and I would still have taken them all.

Finally, it was over and I was drained. Wrung out. Beaten

I was curled up in a small corner of myself, shaking like a sick dog.

Afterwards she gave me a huge, body to body hug, to show I had been forgiven. I had tears in my eyes. I wanted my strong return of her hug to show it was OK for her to have beaten me so hard.

She played Chopin on the piano for me, naked while I recovered. We sipped cold wine and chatted till I’d missed my train. It was calm and it was beautiful.

I know what my relationship with Elita is. I understand and respect, welcome even, the boundaries to it. But for an hour our kinks had danced with each other, meshing perfectly as we moved to our own strange, violent music.

So this didn’t quite happen as I described. In the world I inhabit this is called Consensual Non Consent play. It’s edgy and dangerous, and requires absolute trust and understanding between the players; yet, unlikely as it may seem, it remains play. I had established a different persona for the inappropriate emails, separate from the ‘real me’ that was making the arrangements.  I had had to tread a fine line, wanting to make it credible for Elita to appear angry in our scene but not wanting to actually piss her off. Yet, none of that stopped the fear beforehand from being real. And the beating. That was real too.

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