To be slapped on the face is always a shock, even if I know it’s coming: the sharp sting; the way my head turns with the force; how it makes my eyes water. I can dissociate from a blow anywhere else, thinking “it’s only some flesh and skin that’s been hit,” but a blow on the face strikes ME. It’s personal, less a physical affront than an emotional one, and harder to accept because of that…
Yet, if she’s sitting on my chest, long legs pinning my arms to my side, looking deep into my soul; if she’s feasting on my reactions, the hurt and the fear, and if the light in her eyes is letting me see that she is turned on by these things…
and if, despite, or because of, the pain, she can feel my cock hardening beneath her and moves a little just to increase the pressure on it…
and if, just before each slap, our eyes connect and BDSM’s unique electricity crackles between the opposite poles of her dominance and my submission…
then, perhaps, to be slapped in the face twelve times might not seem such a high mountain. Then, perhaps, I might get to six, knowing that the second six will be harder (in line with the immutable law of all Dommes that, whatever the challenge, the second six shall ALWAYS be harder) and contemplate those second six blows with equanimity, erotic excitement blunting the sharp edges of fear and pain.
Perhaps, even, the notion that these twelve face slaps are only the second of twelve challenges that Elita has listed out on her phone might become something to be both relished and feared in equal measure.
And it was quite a list.
It was a list where corporal punishment took a back seat, becoming an interlude between short sessions of intense, face to face, pain.
She captured my nipples in her hands and her teeth, pulling, squeezing, biting until my back was arched and my fists were balling great bunches of the sheet on which I lay. Then she released them, allowing me only two or three deep breaths before doing it again. Twelve times.
She pushed me over a spanking bench and took me from behind with her gloved fingers, pushing and twisting deep inside, creating waves of sensations, strong powerful sensations, until I was gripping tightly to the bench and moaning, unsure whether what I was experiencing was pleasure or pain, just knowing I wanted all of it.
She sat once more on my chest, putting her hands on my throat and leaning her weight on it until I couldn’t breath, my eyes widening in fear at the unaccustomed constriction. I know this is her thing but I can’t believe it could ever be mine; the sense of being strangled is too much, too frightening, too real. And yet…And yet, each time she did it my cock became a little harder, pressed more insistently against her, giving her the confidence to lean on my throat more firmly and for longer until we reached the twelfth and final time.
For the eighth challenge she returned to my already sensitive nipples, revealing new toys she had bought that morning. As soon as I saw them a surge of adrenaline sent my pulse racing and my breathing became fast and ragged. I’d seen these little bastards before. A sprung plunger on the end of a steel tube, only 7 or 8 millimetres wide, sends out four stiff steel wires, bent at the end to point inwards. As the plunger is released, all the force of the spring is concentrated on the very end of the wires as they close onto the nipples. If nipple torture implements were ski runs, this would be the black slope. As they were applied I was panting, fighting to control my reactions, my head twisting from side to side. It was just. So. Intense. Endorphins rushed to my rescue starting to blunt some of the edges of the pain and sending me towards subspace. “Stay with me,” said Elita insistently, seeing that I was slipping away from her. She worked on my cock, generating pleasure sensations to fight with those of pain. Gradually, wonderfully, pleasure started to win and an orgasm rose up through the clouds of pain, a huge, rolling, shaking orgasm that sent tremors through my whole body repeatedly.
She left the clips on for a while letting me drift on the endorphins. The pain ebbed and flowed, making me shake when it had me in its grasp, then releasing me to float, Elita sitting close to me, watching my reactions. This strange nether-world, to which a pain driven orgasm can send me, is hard to describe but it always seems a wonderful reward for the hard work it took to get there. In this state the Mistress forms my only link to the real world and it feels somehow incredibly important and meaningful that she is there.
We never got to twelve on her list, not because I asked for mercy but because we ran out of time and needed to eat something before going to see a show. All this, and some mild to medium impact play I haven’t described, happened in just 60 minutes, probably the most intense 60 minutes of sensual masochism I have experienced. Elita somehow pressed all of my buttons, all at the same time, and pressed them again and again.
One day I’ll book a longer session and see if I can make it through all twelve of the challenges in her list.
Till then, this is a memory to cherish.
To be the first person to have a session in Elita’s new space felt like a real honour. It is the most fantastic apartment with an amazingly kinky vibe that is apparent as soon as you walk in.
And it could not be more “Elita” if it had a whip on the door!
More twelveish wickedness here: