I’m nervous as I sit with my Gin in the bar of the hotel, waiting for her text. I’m always nervous. Her last text, “I have the key” had sent a little spike of adrenaline through me, quickening my pulse. Adrenaline is not only a drug for prey; adrenaline is also the drug that gives the predator the extra turn of pace, the confidence to makes its attack. Today I am the predator; she, the sender of the text, is my prey.
Her final text: “I’m ready”
I jump up quickly, then, just as quickly, sit down again. Let her wait. Let her nervous anticipation climb till it matches mine. I finish my drink slowly and pay; excited and aroused. But still nervous.
The scene as I enter my hotel room is exactly as I had instructed. She is stunningly, gloriously naked, bent over the rolled back of the sofa. I can see that she has put the gag in. It accentuates the sound of her breathing, short sharp breaths, the breathing of a prey animal close to the threat. The blindfold I had left on the chair is firmly in place.
Without uttering a word I spank her.
I spank her hard.
I spank her as if I was angry.
I spank her as if I had demons inside me that could only be released by her suffering.
At 30 she’s breathing fast, trying to stay on top of the pain. At 50 she’s gasping with each smack, pushing up against the hand that holds her down. Her bottom is red all over, angry red smack marks straying down over the top of her legs. I’m not done though. I’m not done at all.
I pull my wide leather belt through the loops of my trousers and fold it in half. I trail it across the red and sensitive skin of her behind a few times so she knows what’s coming. I’m pleased with the first strike, a perfect deep red/purple stripe across the centre of her buttocks. It elicits a satisfying yell. Again, almost on top of the first. Then higher; then lower; then back in the centre.
A vicious blow, landed quite deliberately in the crease under her buttocks, causes her face to crumple as she breaks into tears, submitting to me, to the beating, to the waves of sensation. This breaking down is what I am looking for. For what is to come, I need her to be mine, to know she is mine; I need her to have submitted to me totally and without reserve. I hit her just twice more and step back, admiring her vividly coloured bottom still bent over the sofa, relishing her quiet sobs.
Once she’s calmed down a little I pull her gently to her feet, remove her blindfold and kiss her once, softly, on the forehead. I sit her in an office type chair, legs spread wide, tying her in position using the cords from the hotel dressing gowns. The gag remains.
I pile pillows on the bed to provide the perfect position for a beating. But it’s not her who’s getting the beating today.
Putting the blindfold that recently covered her tearful brown eyes over my own, I lie on the bed, making sure my backside is exactly central on the pile of pillows.
Her tied to the chair, me lying on the bed; we wait.
Him lying on the bed, me tied to the chair; we wait.
My bottom is hot and sore from his hand and the belt. My cunt is wet and needy but, with my hands tied behind the back of the chair, I can’t respond to its call. I stop myself crying, fascinated by this strange reversal; he was so dominant and harsh in his punishment, yet now he lies meekly, submissively on the bed. I’m nervous, yet excited by the prospect of the violence to come. Time passes slowly.
She’s quite a bit taller than me, with long brown hair and she walks into the room like someone making an entrance at their own party; as though wanting to demonstrate her absolute mastery of the room and everyone in it. She completely ignores me, tied to my chair, but removes her jacket revealing a well fitted white blouse over a black pencil skirt. Her heels are slipped off. Out of a musical instrument case appear a riding crop, a flogger and a cane. I can’t take my eyes off the cane; it’s long and vicious looking, one end bound to form a handle. It scares me, even though I know I am not to be its target.
She works him over with the riding crop, leisurely; a woman taking her time. Each strike leaves its red kiss. When she gets to his backside she hits harder, the kiss joined by a deep red line where the shaft of the crop strikes. She picks up her flogger and whips his back from both sides of the bed till I can see it redden, his breathing becoming ragged as he fights to absorb the pain, lost in his blindfold.
This is new for me. Always the submissive; what am I now, as I watch this scene? As yet I am not sure, I just know it’s erotic. It’s erotic in a new and different way, to watch this strong, controlled woman revel in her dominance over the man to whom I so recently submitted and, piece by piece, take him apart.
She stops. Picks up the cane in place of the crop, then turns and looks me straight in the eyes. As if changing her mind she reaches into her bag, finds a rabbit style vibrator, slips a condom over it and inserts it into my already hot, wet cunt, its ears pressing against my clitoris. When she switches it on, I’m instantly desperate to come, to release the orgasm I’ve been waiting for since the spanking. I surge towards it but suddenly the room is full of such violence it makes me stop, trying to process what is happening.
This is no measured corporal punishment scene; there is no “Stroke One”, “Thank you Mistress”, “Stroke two”. This is a beating. The brutality of it takes my breath away; the “Swish – Thwack” of her cane, as she lifts it high, pauses, then brings it down with full force into his buttocks, causing yells he can barely stifle. I realise now that being made to watch this BY him is an act of submission TO him. I remain his creature, forced to watch because he chooses that I should. It’s hot, intensely, erotically hot. The violence and the vibrator make me squirm in my chair, make me come again and again, moaning aloud into the gag.
As she moves round the bed she comes close enough for me to smell her perfume, to feel her soft lips brush my ear. “Hush your noise, You, or you’ll take his place!” Again she beats him, relentlessly, stroke after stroke. I can see his suffering, hear his suffering and yet, gasping and crying out as he is, he pushes his backside towards her, showing her he wants more until, as it finally becomes too much he slumps back on the bed, wasted.
The only sounds in the room are the faint humming of the vibrator, his deep, gasping breathing and my own soft moans. She pulls the vibrator from me, turns it off and returns it to her bag along with the cane. Donning her shoes and jacket, she takes a long appraising look at his bruised and bloody backside then walks across to me. My fear spikes.
She lifts my face so my gaze meets hers, stares into my soul for a moment or two then, with no warning, hits me a stinging slap across the face. It’s shocking in its suddenness and its ferocity. “This,” she says, “This is for him,” before hitting me three times more; hitting me so hard I feel my teeth jar against each other and my ears ring. Tears return instantly to my eyes as the hot stinging slaps crash into my cheeks. Then without another word she picks up her bag and leaves, heels clicking on the wooden floor.
Leaves us in total silence.
The room is quiet; quiet as a battlefield is quiet after the last gun has been fired; the only sound, the breathing of the wounded as they silently asses their injuries; thankful that, if nothing else, they survived.