He had arranged to go to the Femdom event with his regular Mistress, as a chance to try something new, explore a different dynamic in their relationship. They had planned to session in one of the well equipped play rooms provided by the organisers. When she had phoned that morning to explain that a family crisis was going to take her away, he had felt flat and disappointed but had summoned up the courage to go alone.
After years of one to one sessions with a professional Dominatrix he had found it strange to be indulging his kinks in front of other people. Despite the theatrical mask he wore, he felt exposed and vulnerable, awkward in his new, leather ‘male sub’ outfit. He had played with two of the professional mistresses at the function. One had bound him to a cross and worked his nipples over. It had been intense and stimulating but he had never fully relaxed into it; the strangeness of the surroundings, the unfamiliar Mistress; these things had got in the way. Then a young Scottish mistress had offered him a CP session but had spent most of their time together having him lick her black leather boots while she pulled his hair. It wasn’t really his thing. However, the promise of the CP session had triggered a rush of adrenaline that, left with nowhere to go, coursed unused through his veins, making him edgy and needy.
She sat at the bar alone, wearing a tight leather corset of hand stitched, shiny perfection. Long black gloves. She was older than the other professional Dominatrixes in the room and quite a lot older than his regular mistress; he estimated in her fifties, perhaps more. White hair pulled back, emphasized perfect cheekbones. She had a presence, the kind of presence that only a genuine Dominatrix, secure in her skills and her effortless superiority, could exude. She was talking to the barman in a language that sounded Eastern European.
“Mistress, may I buy you a drink?”
She looked him up and down in cold appraisal. He felt himself being measured.
“Schnapps. Ice.” He ordered.
“Stand here!” She motioned him closer to her. He looked into her eyes. With no warning she slapped the side of his face, a stinging blow, shocking in its suddenness. As soon as his gaze returned to hers she slapped him again, harder. This time he kept his eyes down.
“Do you want to play with me, boy? I am very demanding.”
He had no idea if he was ready for her but the adrenaline answered for him: “Yes Mistress. Thank You Mistress.”
She drained her drink and, without glancing at him, headed for the back of the room, a sea of gyrating leather and latex parting to allow them through. The dance music faded as they descended a small spiral staircase and walked along a brick lined corridor, lit by a single naked bulb, entering a basement room behind a heavy steel door that clanged shut like a bank vault behind them.
He felt his adrenaline levels spike, fear and excitement vying for control of his emotions. Unlike the smart upstairs room where he had played earlier, this one was bare brick and smelt slightly damp. It was empty, apart from an ancient leather spanking bench and a row of canes and whips hanging from a stand. Steel rings were fixed in the ceiling. He stripped off his clothing and stood before her, naked.
“So. Janette said you wanted a Corporal Punishment session. Is that true?”
“Errr. Yes Mistress,” he said, wondering how she had already discussed him.
“Very well,” her voice icy.
He wasn’t sure of the protocol; “Your fee, Mistress?….”
“Ha. There is no fee! A fee would imply that I was offering a service to you! That’s not why you’re here. That’s not why you’re here at all.” She laughed, without warmth.
“Here. Cuffs.”
Confused. Alarmed. Afraid. Turned on. These emotions ran though him. This was more frightening, more real and, because of that, more erotic to him than anything that had happened upstairs. He knew she was going to hurt him but he wanted it. He pushed the fear deep inside, remembering that she was a professional and would respect his limits.
In moments his ankles and wrists were tied to steel rings in the ceiling and the floor leaving him in a classic spread eagle position, weight on the balls of his feet. As she fixed a hard rubber gag into his mouth it occurred to him that she hadn’t asked about his likes and dislikes, his hard or soft limits. Or his safe word.
She hadn’t asked for his safe word.
In the battle for supremacy among his feelings fear started to win over excitement. As she picked up a heavy leather flogger, fear walked up to excitement and slapped it. Hard.
He’d been flogged before but not like this. Not so hard. Not so often. Not so that he could feel each tail of the flogger like a separate whip, biting into his back, his legs, his chest. Relentless. Blow after blow. He writhed and twisted, desperate to wrench his hands out of the cuffs so he could protect himself from the wave after wave of pain but he was held tight.
“You, having fun yet, boy? I’m just getting started”
The whipping seemed endless. Each blow made him more sensitive so when the next one landed his skin felt thinner, the pain sharper. It was brutal. The eroticism drained out of the scene leaving just fear and pain. He begged her to stop but only incoherent yells made it past the gag.
Eventually she did stop. He felt her cool fingers gliding over the ridges she had created in his aching skin. A huge sob of relief left him.
“I know, I know,” she whispered, “my brave boy.”
He ached all over, feeling his skin had been stripped off but his breathing started to slow as he allowed himself to believe it was over. The pain had made him feel floaty but he started to rationalise what had happened as an intense experience that he had survived, a new place in his long exploration of BDSM.
She returned to his field of view and icy fear reclaimed him. She carried a long, thick single tail whip; the kind of whip that only existed in movie representations of 18th century cotton plantations.
“No. No more please, Mistress” he begged incoherently through the gag.
She laughed the cold laugh again.
“Oh, Darling. Did you think we were finished?”
The whip bit deep into his back. He felt his skin break; screamed hard into the gag.
She hit him again. She hit him and hit him. The whip felt like steel cord cutting into his skin; cutting down to his ribs. Each blow added more white heat until he felt his flesh must melt off his body.
He felt her fingers run along his broken skin, dig into the cuts. She thrust them into his mouth, forcing him to swallow the salty, iron taste of his own blood.
The last thing he felt as he collapsed was the tightening of the cuffs on his wrists as his weight pulled against them.