Today I wanted to write a post about ‘touch’, and started off that way. Then I spotted that the Wicked Wednesday theme was ‘recollections’ so I binned the ‘touch’ idea and started to recollect key moments of BDSM that still held significance for me, flicking back through the ‘sessions’ category on the blog.
I came to the surprising realisation that touch frequently WAS the most important and meaningful recollection of the session; even those sessions that had been severe and hard to take.
When playing with someone who offers sexual services in addition to BDSM it would be surprising for the session not to include touching, or indeed intimate contact of various kinds. Such an encounter might become ‘sex with kink’ rather than being ‘only’ a BDSM session.
Most of my experiences have been with Mistresses who don’t offer sex; Mistresses with whom touch might be expected to play more an incidental role in a session constructed around altogether more extreme sensations. However, recalling these encounters made me realise that this is precisely what makes touch so important and memorable when it does occur in ‘my type of session’.
I recall a Mistress in the US who applied a bowl full of cloths pegs, one at a time to my genitals. She started at my testicles and, having run out of space there, worked her way, peg by bitey little peg, up my penis. It became absolutely agonising. At about 20 pegs I was losing control of my breathing and had run out of places to put the pain, long before she had run out of places to put the pegs. As an experienced Mistress, she could see the safeword working its way to the surface from the deep place where I had hidden it. She paused with the pegs and stroked her cool hand, with its delicate oriental fingers, in circles over my stomach; just the very lightest of touches. I wanted to enjoy this new sensation but to do so, I had to control the pain, had to somehow get it into balance with her touch. This might seem like trying to balance a rock with a feather, but I somehow managed to do so and, with a couple more pauses filled with the same mesmeric touching, I made it to over thirty pegs. My recollection of the session is as much about her touch as about the exquisite torment caused by the pegs.
After a prolonged flogging, I recall Mistress Darcy’s fingers tracing a cooling river of touch through the arid wasteland of my back. I recall being pathetically grateful for the relief it brought.
I recall a Mistress in a New York dungeon resting her hand on my thigh while she tortured my nipples ruthlessly. I carried on past where I thought my limits lay, knowing that if I answered the call of the safe word loud in my head, she would take her hand away.
And I recall the hardest session of them all, when, near the end, I was losing my last finger-hold on an agonising cliff face of pain while Elita and her man fucked next to me, oblivious to my distress. I recall how the unintended touch of her thigh against mine offered the smallest connection to something warm and human, my mind grasping that connection in desperation and relief.
So, my recollections are not always of the spreading heat of the flogger, the stab of pain from the nipple clips or the agony of a hard swung cane; sometimes the lightest, most delicate of touches has more impact than the harshest whip.
More recollected wickedness here: