I’m stood in the shade, only 100 metres from the rental dungeon in central London where we are due to meet. My heart’s running at about twice it’s normal rate, pumping liberal doses of adrenaline around my body. My mouth is dry, my breathing shallow. I curse myself for arriving too early, feeling I must look suspicious, a middle aged man on a street corner near a school, constantly checking the time. Still ten minutes. Dammit.
For me at least, seeing a mistress I haven’t seen before is about the scariest part of BDSM. No amount of careful reading of her web page, email communication or favourable comments from her fellow sex workers, can eliminate the fear that comes from asking a complete stranger to tie me up and hit me. Miss Hunter is well known as a Corporal Punishment specialist, famed for her skill with the cane and the tawse. A twitter friend who’s been on the scene for years had told me of her fearsome reputation as I travelled up to London . It didn’t help.
She turned out to be lovely. She was attractive and chatty and delivered exactly the introductory session I had asked for. At times it was testing, as a good session should be, but I never felt I was going under.
She has me over her knee, insisting that I let my full weight rest on her. I’m so much bigger than her and it feels all wrong. Eventually I relax into it, enjoying the strength with which she holds me in position. Her spanking takes my breath away. How can this just be her hand? It feels more like the weighty thud of a plimsoll as it lands again and again, all over my bottom. Later she focusses on the crease at my top of my thighs, making me want to squirm
I hate it.
I love it.
It’s hard not to feel submissive if you’re over someone’s knee, a position redolent with implications and my nervousness fades as I start to relish both the situation and the sensations she is causing. It’s a position she returns me to several times during the session.
For the next hour she moved me around the room, changing positions, changing implements, always escalating the pain level, working me over.
She has this trick I’ve not come across before. Between implements she grabs the patch of soft flesh right at the base of my bottom, sore from her recent assaults, and squeezes it, working it between her strong fingers. I’m now super-sensitive there and it makes me shudder, a whole body shake that alarms her at first. To be hurt so much by such a simple action makes me feel especially vulnerable, the psychological effect as strong as the physical.
Before the session I had asked Miss Hunter if we could explore the Tawse, notorious as the corporal punishment implement of choice in Scottish schools until it was banned. We certainly explored it: three different Tawses with varying weights and sizes. Perhaps only fellow masochists will comprehend this statement but by the end I liked the tawse: the weight of it; the thuddy, stingy heat of it; the extreme challenge of the impact. All these things worked for me but so too did the sight of her raising it high before bringing it down; the menace in that action pressed all my buttons. This was just an introduction and the thought of what a heavy tawsing might feel like makes my pulse race even as I write those words.
But she didn’t just use it on by backside. She hit me on the palms of my hands, just as the Tawse was originally used in those Scottish schools.
My right hand is held out, supported by the left. This is hot in the way that the moment before being slapped in the face is hot; we’re looking into each other’s eyes, a challenge given, a challenge received. She feints, lifting the strap and returning it softly to its starting point. I take a sharp intake of breath and she sees the fear in my eyes. She feints again. I know it’s coming, maybe this time, maybe the next. Sure enough the next one isn’t a feint and she lands the heavy leather full on my hand. I was expecting pain but there’s no way to be ready for the streak of white heat across my fingers and over my palm. I gasp at the shock of it.
The real challenge is not to absorb the pain of the first stroke but to hold my hand still for the second and the third, then to swap them over and take three more on the other hand. I fight to control my reactions, to overcome the pain, to still be looking into her eyes after six strokes; that fight and the thrill of it go right to the very core of my kinks so that I’m immersed fully in the moment, every fibre focussed on that one thing.
By the final stroke my hands felt as though I’d picked up a poker by the wrong end, a stinging, burning heat of shocking intensity. It might seem an odd thing to have asked for; most of us aren’t going to eroticise pain on the hands in the way we might eroticise pain on the bottom.
And yet I suspect I will return to this.
Not so much for the pain itself as for the intimacy and intensity of the moment just before she hit me. I could erotise that in a heart-beat.
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