It was straightforward really. I needed to lose weight, but had been prevaricating over it for ages so, ahead of a recent session, I asked Mistress Elita to make a threat as to what would happen if I didn’t meet my end of January target. She did exactly that.
But what a threat it was!
PLEASE NOTE: This post contains a description of a form of sexual violence that, while safe, sane and consensual, and a not un-common practise in the Femdom world, may make uncomfortable reading for some.
This “BDSM diet” has worked for me before, turning something dull, boring and tedious, into an opportunity for my kinky self to come to the fore multiple times each day. While I am on “the diet” every time I look at a biscuit or make a decision between an elevator or a set of stairs, it is the kinky me that is making that decision. I reasoned that over the Christmas period, which affords few opportunities to live in the kinky part of my brain, this would be a great way to motivate myself to exercise more and eat less, while thinking kinky thoughts and reliving the session where Elita set the diet target and threatened me with the consequences of failure.
A bit of light kinky fun, that’s also good for me.
That’s all it would have been if the threat had been a harder than usual caning, or a session of bastinado (being hit on the feet) as in my previous, and successful, BDSM diet challenges.
This is something else.
This is about BDSM practises I have always written in my list of hard limits for a new Mistress; BDSM practises I would be quite happy never to experience.
This is about…..well, here’s how “the threat” was made:
I’m on my back, tied to the bed, knees pulled up towards my shoulders in what the spanking world knows as the nappy change position. This, however, is not about spanking, although the host of other sensations I have experienced have me already deep into the session, lost in it.
Elita is tugging on the chain attached to the clips on my nipples, hurting me. The pain makes it hard to concentrate on what she’s saying; the touch of her thigh against mine makes it harder. Still talking, reminding me of my commitment to lose weight, she stands up on the bed, looking down on me. In the unfamiliar position, the part of me nearest to her is my scrotum, stretched tight by the coils of rope wrapped round its base, my testicles swollen and exposed.
I realise that the bondage; the position, the way my legs pull helplessly against the rope as I try to straighten out and protect myself, this is all planned.
I realise this because I know what she’s going to do.
She’s going to kick my balls.
They’re already sore from the tightness of the rope; purple and swollen, pushing hard against my drum-tight scrotum. The sure realisation of what’s going to happen instantly vaporises the dreamy cloud of subspace. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, my breath quicken, my fear spiking.
She’s going to kick my balls.
She taps her bare foot against them experimentally.
“So this is what we come back to at the end of January, do you understand?”
“Yes, Mistress;” whispered.
She kicks me. Not hard; but hard enough to feel the ridges of bone along the top of her foot against my balls; hard enough for them to jam up against the rope; hard enough to know what more force might feel like. To be so vulnerable, so exposed, so unable to protect myself, makes me feel somehow smaller. In this moment I am so dependant on her, so much her creature, that my submission feels absolute and unquestioning. She could kick me again if she wants; five times, twenty times more, each time crushing my sensitive balls between the hardness of her foot and the unmoving rope.
I hold my breath waiting for her to decide my fate; a fallen gladiator, victor’s spear at his throat, waiting for the audience to give the signal. The fire in her eyes tells me she wants to go further, relishes the knowledge of what she could do to me and is turned on by it.
She looks into my eyes, foot tapping on my balls.
“Do we understand each other?”
I breathe again as she takes her foot away and gets off the bed.
But I know I’ll be in the gym tomorrow.
After the session where she made the threat, things didn’t quite work out as planned. A dose of gout, that least sexy of afflictions, ensured a bad start to my campaign, adding weight rather than losing it. Christmas has been one huge meal after another.
It looks as though the hard work is all going to have to be done in January!