BIG BOYS DON’T – learning to let go

By | 20th June 2017

If the input to a session had included the statements below, sent over several months, it would be unwise to expect only a mild spanking:

  • “I’m wondering what it would be like to have been whipped, properly whipped”
  • “Progressive CP, caning, flogging, whipping. I’m up for all of it”
  • “Marks? I’m good with marks; In fact, I want marks”

If the session were located in a dungeon deep underground, with half a dozen punishment benches but no bed, sensual tie and tease might not be on the menu.

And so it proved.

Over a bench. Spanking. It doesn’t really hurt but helps me slip into the place I need to be. A flogger follows. It smacks hard into my arse but it feels like preparation.

I’m writing this on a flight, just a few hours after our meeting. I’m floaty, contemplative, a bit emotional still. I have nothing else in my life that makes me feel this way, nothing to relate it to.

Still on the bench – her favourite nine tailed whip, one side, the other, crack, crack, crack. I try to roll with it but I’m panting when she stops. As soon as my breathing slows she starts again. Even the dozen or so firm strokes with a cane feel like a warm up. And that’s frightening.

I’ve been whipped and flogged a bit by Elita before, and she once gave me a few strokes with a single tail bull whip. It’s always been something that happened in the middle of a session. A change of pace. A lighter, faster “allrgro” movement before the big crescendo with the cane. This was to be different.

An upright metal flogging frame, hands stretched up and out, clipped in place. Solid, industrial metalwork that would take my weight if I passed out. A heavy flogger, three or four brushes with the leather tails, then SMACK, all of it, hard, vicious. Swish, swish, swish, SMACK, swish, swish, SMACK; back, shoulders, higher, lower, one side, the other. Then only the hard strokes SMACK, SMACK, again, again, again, again. It’s relentless, every stroke its own challenge.

My back was radiating heat as I walked through the airport, an infrared beacon saying “masochist here”. How could no-one notice? I dreaded a finger-tip search at security – I’d have been outed for sure. I can still feel the heat now. If I move against the seat, the fabric of my shirt rubs against my back and my skin is so sensitive I feel I could count the threads in the cotton.

The first really hard strokes with the bull whip wrap round my backside onto my thigh. It’s agonizing. Elita adjusts her position slightly. The end of the whip is waxed string with knots every inch or so but to me it’s a knife; it’s fire; it’s a length of braided steel cord.

whip marks knots jpeg

you can count the knots!

The top of my leg is heavily marked, I feel it when I brush against that side of the airplane seat. Remembering it all now as I write this, my eyes fill a little. People might assume a BDSM session is mostly a physical challenge and so it is, but the emotions are no less affecting.

As the flogger on my back and the single tail on my arse alternate I feel near to some kind of limit. The overwhelming urge to cry creeps up on me, unwanted. But I’m not a crier. I can’t cry. I’ve never cried at anything my whole adult life.

I’m a fucking bloke for fuck’s sake.

I bury the urge until a vicious blow, slightly high, wrings an anguished sob from me. I try to swallow it back down, hoping she won’t notice but she’s alive to my responses and  pauses, leaning her whole body against mine while I recover my breathing. It’s touching and intimate and says she cares and I love that she does.

The stewardess, the older one with a nice smile, just asked if I’m OK and handed me a tissue. She thinks I’m crying at La La Land playing on the small screen in front of me!

Elita pushes on, each blow of the flogger peeling another layer of skin off my back, each strike of the whip biting deep into my backside. It’s as though she senses the prize, just needs one final push to get there. And she does get there as I break down properly, sobbing into the metal frame.

I close my laptop. Breathe deeply. Sip my wine. It floods back, the emotional catharsis of that moment. A less experienced Mistress might have stopped then but Elita wasn’t done. “A caning, a flogging and one more absolute bastard of a whipping,” she told me, as once again she leant against me so I could feel her breasts pressing into the heat of my back.

The caning. Many, many strokes but it feels like a brief return to a familiar, well understood place. Sure, I gasp out loud with each blow, but I hold my position, backside away from the frame defiantly presenting her with a clear target. Hard though it is, I don’t want it to end because I know what comes next.

She makes me break down again with the flogger, hitting me so hard the whole metal frame shakes and clatters with my anguished reactions. She gives me maybe 30 seconds to gather myself and then whips me and whips me and whips me until I break down one final time, sobbing and shuddering, yelling out the pain of it into the cold, unhearing stone of the dungeon walls.

I’ll remember Elita’s hug after she unclipped me from the frame for as long as I’ll remember the whipping that preceded it. She held me tight and close for a long time while I wept, tears running down my face and into her hair. We looked at each other and laughed. Later, as we sat close, marvelling at what we had just done together I broke down once more, leaning forward and sobbing, before laughing again at this new-found vulnerability.

For a man of my generation and my boarding school upbringing, with a lifetime of bottling up my emotions, the sense of release was wonderful, completely new and totally cathartic. All my British reserves had been stripped away by Elita’s whip, as efficiently as a steamer strips away old wallpaper, leaving what’s underneath seeming fresh and new. My emotional skin felt thinner and more sensitive just as my real skin did.

Elita trusted me, and trusted her own understanding of me, enough to carry on after I’d broken down, pushing me over that edge again and again, stopping at the exact moment when I couldn’t have taken another stroke. That trust was, is, a beautiful thing and I wonder at it.

She has sent me off to Las Vegas feeling stronger, more confident and fully in charge of myself.

And, if you’re about to go into hand to hand combat with a room full of professional poker players, that’s a good way to feel.

whip marks selfie

I have posted the sound of one of the floggings Elita gave me here. You can hear the sound echoing off the walls.
Also there is a Sinful Sunday post with a fantastic post session picture that Elita took.

This session took place in The Bunker, a great venue for kinky fun.

More wickedness here:

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

12 thoughts on “BIG BOYS DON’T – learning to let go

  1. Posy Churchgate

    Bib1 – your journey is incredible, it’s as if we are with you, and even if what you enjoy is not to everyone’s taste your description of you feelings and where they take you helps us understand. I think you are learning that you’re allowed to connect with your motions and express them.

  2. Indigo Byrd

    This is such a powerful piece of writing, about what was clearly an extremely powerful and cathartic encounter. Thank you for sharing this.

  3. Aurora Glory

    I recently had a very similar experience. Though I’m a crier anyway, this had an intensity and release very different to usual tears. I thoroughly enjoyed reading this and being taken back to my own experience. I can’t even remember the pain anymore, only the relief. And it’s definitely something I crave experiencing again.
    Aurora x

  4. Molly

    This was clearly a very intense session for you and one I think you will look back on as being a very important moment in accepting your kinks and how having them met is such a positive thing.

    Crying during an intense scene is not uncommon for me but I can remember being very shocked by it the first time it happened especially as I was none of the things that one usually associates with crying. I was not scared and whilst there was pain it was not the pain making me cry but something else, something less definable. I know now that the crying is a release, just in the same way laughing is sometimes for me (because sometimes I will start laughing during an intense scene rather that crying), it is that physical eruption of the intensity of the moment. For me it is always hugely calming and I always sleep like a log afterwards

    I hope that you have processed this and that you do feel good and happy about it as personally I think it is a very healthy thing


    1. PainAsPleasure Post author

      Hi Molly
      Thank you so much for this, it chimes really well with what I experienced and I find it helpful.
      I had that same feeling that, although the crying seemed to be caused by the pain, it wasn’t totally about the pain. At that point I was in very deep and feeling everything very intensely, not just the pain of each implement, but the atmosphere of the dungeon, the loss of control from being tied to the cross, Elita’s presence and her focus on what she was doing. Your description of an eruption of that intensity in the crying definitely fits with how I felt at the time.
      I too experienced the calmness afterward and that was exactly how I felt as I wrote the post on the flight.
      Thank you

  5. Marie Rebelle

    Oh hun, reading this evoked so many feelings in me. It choked my up because this experience is beautiful and special and because your writing is stunning, but it also made me long to be broken down to only the emotions I am feeling deep down, to be able to let all my tears out. One day, one day I will experience this again, when we all have healed. In the meantime I will live off your experiences. Thank you so much for sharing them! <3

    Rebel xox

  6. eye

    I am glad that you have such an experienced and caring Mistress that sees what you need and gives it to you. It seems to me that no one needs to be taught emotion, just allowed and encouraged to get to a place where they can express it. Bravo to you and the skillful, lovely E. I look forward to mulling these things over coffee with you x

  7. Wriggly Kitty

    Wow. That’s so powerful and sounds so cathartic. I don’t always comment, but I love how you and Elita have built such a relationship of trust that she can give you what you need.

  8. sissy_maid_melody

    I’ve followed your writings for a while as they often mirror some of my own thoughts and experiences. This time I had to comment.

    Over the weekend you alluded to something very intense about to happen. When MistressElita posted those two words “Man down”, I suspected something like this had been experienced and I’m glad to see your writings on it – and that you’re ok – though why you give yourself extra challenges such as going to the opera or a 10 hour flight straight after still eludes me 😉

    I can relate very personally to the experience. I don’t know if you’ve set these increasing challenges with the goal of being taken over the edge – ok, lets be frank, taken over the edge here means being broken and losing all control.

    You seem to work roughly in the same way that I do and we seem to be of a similar age with similar social conditioning to contain emotion and feelings. The real bugger of that is that you can’t fake the tears and being broken. It means fighting to endure, using that gift of 30 seconds or so to compose and steel yourself to take the next strokes that you didn’t think you could only a moment before. If you can’t fake the tears then you know you have to endure until she’s overcome all the mental and physical blocks.

    I see no hint in your writings that you have never uttered a safeword. My own psyche won’t seem to let me and I think you’re similar. That leaves a terrible burden on the domme. Wracked in agony yet refusing to give in, it feels like cheating to give in. Yet it means she has to give in unless she is prepared to push past that hardest barrier of all.

    As you describe going in to meltdown I got flashbacks. The tears and shame being drawn in equal measure because you’ve so lost control of yourself mentally and physically, a puppet for anything the domme wants to do. You know the dangers and about the only thing left to cling on to is absolute trust in the domme.

    My own trite saying at this point is that she can cause me pain, but she won’t hurt me.

    I’m pleased that you got the big pay off at the end, the tenderness and soothing is everything.

    I hope the flight back is less uncomfortable.

  9. Rebecca

    When I can find the strength of words to write I will comment further. You needed to be taught emotion. You need the abity to break down to reheal


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