It is not a large, well known or even especially expensive hotel, at least not when its centeral London location is taken into account. However the shower attachment is the latest in high-tech water management. I have it set to “waterfall” and a constant stream of hot water pours down like thick paint from a can, washing away my tiredness and bringing me round.
I have not slept well. The physical and emotional intensity of the evening had left me wired and awake. The adrenaline from the fear before the session, the secondary rush of it near the end, had left my body’s response mechanism in a state of high alert, prepared to either fight a threat or fly from one. Yet the threat had left promptly at ten pm, heels clicking on the tile floor. The adrenaline had been slow to leave and only deep into the night had my body felt itself safe enough to allow me to slumber.
The relentless torrent of water washes the dust of sleep from last night’s memories, leaving them glinting in the light, ready to be examined.
My back up against the wall, she’s slapping my face hard, eyes staring straight into mine, daring me to drop her gaze. How could an act of such violence have felt so intimate?
Two steel rings on my erect cock pass electric impulses of increasing intensity between one another, while her flogger slams into nerve endings all over my back. Senses overloaded, alarm bells ringing everywhere.
Her single tail whip, swishing from side to side a centimetre from my backside, trailing streams of cool air. A change of action with her wrist; the waxed cord at it’s end becoming braided steel wire at the instant of impact, before morphing again into the soothing jets of cold air. Swish, swish crack, swish, swish crack. Lost in the sensations.
Lying on the bed, pillows raising my arse as a target. The cane. Again and again, the cane. Relentless. Bruising. Brutal. Pushing me deep into a submissive subspace.
Shaking and shuddering repeatedly as she reaches into my soul and locates an orgasm buried deep in the layers of pain and drags it reluctantly to the surface. How does she do that? When my whole body has turned in on itself to process the pain she is inflicting, diverted all its energy to that one task? Still she finds an orgasm. Such knowledge and understanding.
Finished with the shower, I position the towel just where I like it to be for the big reveal and turn so I can see my backside in the mirror. This is a ritual for me; the waiting till after I’ve showered, the slow, revealing turn away from the mirror, the framing of the purples and reds against the white towel. I rub my hand over the marks; tracing the thin pink ridge where the whip has found a patch of clear skin at the top of my buttocks and left it’s own pristine mark. I run my fingers lightly where the cane has left line after parallel line, piled one on top of the other, merging into a large purple bruise; pressing where the bruising is deeper, feeling the hardness where not just skin but muscle has been damaged. I love this moment. It’s a reward; a reward for taking it, for letting her beat me past the point where I had had enough to the point where she had had enough, stopping only because her demons had truly been sated.
The hotel has a small, though actually rather good, restaurant, opening onto the main road. I revel in the rare but precious luxury of breakfasting well and alone, only my thoughts and the slight discomfort of a hard chair for company. Without the session my mind would be rushing forward to the day, the meeting at 10, the business lunch, home this evening. Today though all that will come in good time; I am relaxed, able to appreciate the soft scrambled eggs, the perfect smoked salmon and the excellent sourdough toast.
I use my phone to send an email to the Mistress, thanking her for the session, commenting that we seemed to have promoted ourselves from division two of face slapping to the premiership in one move but that the intimacy, the fact that I could sense her excitement at the violence, had made it thrilling and intense. I mention a violent scene we had discussed for a future session. An X finishes the email as it might to a friend.
I order a second coffee, feeling calm and relaxed, my kinks settled and at rest. The session has left me feeling more motivated, somehow more alive than when I had arrived, flustered, at the hotel the night before.
As I leave and head for the tube I walk a little taller, stride a little more purposefully, at peace with myself.
More, though perhaps less scrambled, wickedness here: