THREESOME WITH A DIFFERENCE – the card game

The atmosphere helped; not a stern, humourless punishment scene or indeed any role play at all. It felt like three people letting their kinks out, playing with each other, testing limits. The fact that Elita took her beating first and took all of it; that helped too, though only in the sense that it eliminated any possible recourse to a safe word.  I’m not entirely sure I’d have made it to the end otherwise.

I described in an earlier post how this session came about, and how it felt to realise that I wasn’t in for the expected hour of kinky, sensual submission; to realise that both Elita and I were going to be beaten by her man with the fearsome array of implements waiting, full of threat, on the dungeon floor.

They’d thought up a game; OF COURSE they’d thought up a bloody game. Eleven implements; between one and twelve strokes with each, the number determined by the draw of a card. So the maximum twelve strokes could be with the weighty thud of the plimsoll, or with the deep bite of cane. For the final card, Elita and I each had to choose an implement to be repeated at the end of the other’s session. I chose the strap for Elita, thinking it wouldn’t be too horrific. She chose the wood and leather “sting” for me, knowing full well it would be an absolute bastard. No surprise there then!

I can’t remember exactly how all the cards fell. It’s not really important and isn’t what stayed with me. What shook me up, made this session one I will never forget, was the overwhelming intensity of the experience; my shock at what was happening, first to Elita, then to me.

He tied Elita to the spanking bench and forced her to look up at me. I could see her defiance, her excitement and her fear as she waited for the first stroke of the cane. Its impact sent a shudder through her body and brought a sharp intake of breath. Much of what followed is still with me.

The strength with which he swings the paddle, the turn of his torso, the force in his arms; her whole body lurching forward as it smacks into her bottom.

How she holds out through the first four strokes of the sting. Close up, I watch her defiance, in awe at her refusal to concede. I see the pain of each stroke reach high up the walls of her defences before they are finally breached, her beautiful face crumpling. I have to hold her down for the last three, as she cries out her pain straight into my eyes.

The way she asks him to hit her harder with the strap; in the zone now, wanting to dominate the implement, and defeat it utterly. Which she does.

Her loud gasp of shock at the first impact with the tawse. I witness the exact moment she remembers that this is the ten card, leaving nine more strokes to come.

Her knowing, accusing look as she grasps my erection. My instantaneous guilt at what it tells her, assuaged only partly by the knowledge that I have the same beating to come.

Feeling the heat rising from her bottom when he’s finished, running my fingers along the raised welts, pushing slightly to feel the damage under the skin. I find beauty in the marks, and greater beauty in her enjoyment of them.

There was no pretence here, no sense of a performance put on for my benefit. Elita’s masochism is like her sadism, knowing no half measures and she pushes herself to her own limits, just as she pushes me to mine. She had let me see deep into that masochism; showing me the agony of each stroke, her satisfaction at surviving it and her fear of the next.

To watch Elita be beaten by her lover felt like an act of sexual voyeurism; I was watching their love making. To hold her down so he could beat her harder made me part of their intercourse and complicit in her anguish.

It was horrific. It was erotic.

It was a terrifying act of violent abuse. It was an intimate act of consensual sex.

What then of my beating? That hurt. A lot. At times, it hurt more than I have ever been hurt before. I’d feel I was getting on top of one type of pain only for it to be replaced by another. Yet Elita was with me for every stroke: she felt his first swing of the tawse turn my light touch on her arm to a panicked, vice-like grip; she coached me back down to the bench when the shock of the sting jerked me upright; she fed off my fear as he prepared to give me twelve strokes with the single-tail whip (why did the 12 card  have to fall there?); she praised me when I took five with the heavy strap, not moving a muscle, defiantly staring straight into her eyes as each stroke landed.

It didn’t end with the beating.

I was tied to a hard metal bed, him pulling on my nipples so violently it felt they must rip, while Elita masturbated my cock in what she calls a punch wank, a speciality. Having already submitted to him once, it felt perfectly natural that they should swap places with each other. So having been taken beyond the outer limits of my masochism, I was taken beyond other limits.

And, d’you know what? I was good with all of it.

 

The aftermath:

Some posts pour out of me, a continuous stream of consciousness written over breakfast the morning after the session. With this one, I’ve felt like a vet with a breached calf; tugging first one way then another at the emotion of the session to get it out.

To experience all this in 60 minutes and then walk straight out of the dungeon into the real world was quite a hard thing to do. I spoke to Elita later in the evening which helped. I lost myself playing poker, occasionally getting a nudge when it was my turn to make a move,  reluctantly forcing myself back from the dungeon to the card room so I could fold, call or raise.

I have added a post trying to get to grips with how having a BDSM session with a man makes me feel and querying whether its any more than a new source of pain for my masochism.

 

This is nothing to do with this week’s “wedding” theme but I’m going to put it on Wicked Wednesday anyway. Get over there for great erotica: