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.
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.
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: