Facing King’s Cross railway station in London is a small hotel. It’s rather good, with modern, well equipped bedrooms and excellent bathrooms which are perfect for the all-important post session soak in the shower. I won’t link to it as they might not approve of what I get up to in their rooms. I sessioned there recently with Mistress Elita.
Sometimes I want a session that is unpredictable and random; where the loss of control is total. At other times I want to take an old fantasy and refine it, get to the core of why it turns me on. This time I was looking for the ultimate expression of my “wordless beating” fantasy. Perhaps not the ultimate expression as that would imply an end of a journey. More an evolution; a taking to the next level.
I published my pre session letter setting out my ideas for this meeting. Here is a post session letter. I didn’t actually write at anything like this length but the sentiment was there. She sent me a lovely reply which you will find below.
Wow! That was unbelievably intense for me. I’ve finally come down enough to gather my thoughts into some kind of order.
The sense of fear in the build up was palpable as my subconscious helpfully pointed out that I had asked you to beat me till YOU had had enough. What a scary thing to have done to myself! Sometimes I think that fear is the real kink for me and that everything else: the beatings, the nipple clamps, the flogging, is just to keep the fear real. Not horror movie jump-a-bit-have-some-more-popcorn fear, but real fear, in my gut.
I had positioned myself ten minutes early, naked and blindfolded, kneeling in the seat of an armchair. I was facing its back, King’s Cross station below, enjoying the waiting, the sense of my body preparing itself.
My heart rate spiked when I heard your key in the door. Footsteps. Zip. Implements being laid out. I could sense your presence as you came close. Without moving a muscle I tried to reach out to you. But for the blindfold, I’d have looked into your eyes to gauge your mood; playful and sexy or demanding and sadistic?
I found out soon enough as your long whip whistled backwards and forwards, first caressing then biting into my backside. I had asked for this but now it seemed too much and I felt isolated, alone and vulnerable. I willed my subconscious to reach out to yours, needing you to touch me, to make a connection. You did, but only with your whip, letting it bite deeper; biting till I was struggling to stay still in the chair.
My memory of the next 45 minutes is not very clear. The whip. A strap. Perhaps a paddle, something thuddy for sure. You tied me to the bed. Headphones. Music. An orchestra. I couldn’t hear or see you; a form of sensory depravation. You seemed to be flogging my back in time to the orchestra. Perhaps I imagined that.
You changed the music; a medieval choral piece, monks chanting, Fifty Shades of Grey style.
I know we’re all meant to be rude about that book and hate the movie, but I instantly understood Christian’s music choice for Anastasia’s first BDSM session. The beating became a ritual, somehow full of mysterious symbolism. A cane. A heavy stroke, forcing me to pull against the ropes, breathe deeply, fight it. Again. Again. Yet again. The monks chanted on, impervious to my writhing. Or perhaps they were enjoying it; remembering their own submission to the same pain filled ritual.
As your punishment progressed and I slipped towards subspace, I sensed something new. Were you hesitating? Was that possible? Were you undecided whether to go on? You paused. Gave me a few more strokes. Visited the bathroom. More strokes. You were still for a moment before removing the headphones and releasing the ropes. I could hear you re-packing your bag. I might have relaxed then, had you not left the cane lying across my thighs.
It could only have been there for one reason.
I tried to rally my troops to withstand the inevitable final assault. I was Michael Caine with his few, brave men at Rorke’s Drift, nervously eyeing the advancing Zulu horde, summoning up thin reserves of courage. My God, you hit me hard! This was where the marks in my Sinful Sunday post came from; not bruises so much as cuts, seeping blood; evidence of your commitment to overcome any misgivings and give me the beating I had asked for. You took my breath away with your violence and your pain. I’d have cried out if I could have taken in enough air to make a sound.
Then you left. You kissed me lightly on the shoulder, and you left.
The silence in the room could not have been more complete. The silence was to sound what a black hole is to light. It was absolute.
I lay still, breathing deeply, for a minute, for an hour. For a lifetime. Things came to me only slowly: the room, the soreness, the sound of the traffic below.
When, eventually, I limped to the bathroom to survey the damage, I found your note.
I welled up a bit then. Such a warm, human, caring gesture. The note said to me that, for all its Domme/Sub, Mistress/Slave, Sadist/Masochist dynamic, this had been a consensual transaction between two human beings. And human beings care for one another.
My thoughts looking back on the session? I’d do it all again right now, just for the kiss on my shoulder as you left.
Till next time, Mistress
I was absolutely delighted when Elita sent me this reply. I love the way she let me get a sense for what was going on in her mind during the session.