Elita removed the blindfold to reveal the Unseen Mistress who had been tormenting me for the previous half an hour. She was stunning; attractive and slim, with the imperious presence of the true dominatrix. We greeted each other with knowing smiles. I’d have shaken her hand if both of mine hadn’t been tied above my head.
The two of them were quite a sight; one dark haired, the other blond, one in leather, the other in body hugging latex. They were both tall in their heels and looked fit, toned and strong; Elita strong like an athlete, the other Mistress strong like a dancer. I felt awed by their presence, slipping deeper into submission and wanting, needing even, to please them.
They took me apart, laughing with each other as they did so. I got lost towards the end so my memory is probably not exact and certainly isn’t detailed.
I remember a long time on the spanking bench, the Mistress caning me while Elita, kneeling in front of the bench, fed off my pain, her eyes alight with sadistic excitement. The Mistress looked to her for guidance after each set of six strokes, Elita nodding encouragingly. Her nod said “Yeah, sure. He can take another six.” The cane was thin and flexible, wrapping round my backside like a bamboo whip. It was hard and I dug my fingers into Elita’s arms with every impact.
They flogged me together; two floggers, one bitey, one thuddy. Seeing them swing the whips in the mirror, then feeling the impact was erotic and sensual .
They laid me face up on a long leather covered table, hands padlocked to the sides. Nipple torture, electric pulses surging through my cock, a hard rubber dildo; sometimes one pain at a time, sometimes all three together, pushing me deeper and deeper into sensory overload as I jerked and twisted against the restraints.
Eventually, after what seemed an age, I disappeared inside myself, no longer aware of my tormentors, only of the pain they were causing; great surging waves of it.
I’ve no idea what the Mistress did to my nipples at the end. It might have been some kind of bulldog clip, it might have only been her finger nails. Whatever it was, it instantly drowned out all the other sensations, a white heat standing out against the red of the pain I felt everywhere else. I felt the muscles of my chest, my arms, my legs all tighten in response to it and I lost control of my breathing, failing to suck in enough air to dilute the pain.
It was deep. It was intense. An all enveloping surge of agony.
Somehow, out of all this pain, my body created an orgasm. Perhaps my subconscious perceived that only an orgasm would bring an end to the torment. It came from deep within me, gathering force, building and building until it plucked my body out of the sea of pain and shook it and shook it, again and again, eventually throwing me back down onto the table, drained and shuddering.
I don’t have this pain driven orgasm often, but each time I do, I’m left stranded on a beach, alone, barely aware of where I am. Only gradually do my surroundings come back into focus as aftershocks ripple through my body; in this case I slowly became aware of the table I was on, the room, Elita, her friend. I may have smiled at them. They certainly smiled at me, making “gosh” and “wow” noises at the strength of the orgasm and congratulating me for taking all they had given.
It had been quite an experience, one that I am only fully appreciating as I write this a week later, remembering the intensity of it, the humour of their interplay and the wonderful feeling of having been “Elita’s submissive” for the evening.
We sipped champagne and chatted afterwards. I probably didn’t make much sense but they smiled at whatever it was I was saying. After half an hour or so I walked up into the street, unsure how much of it had actually happened and how much I had dreamt.
Generally, a session of this intensity will leave me in a haze of floaty contemplation for a day or two, and feeling strong and happy for a week. My reaction to this session was different and for a few days afterwards I felt wired; all twitchy and nervous. I was jumping up every five minutes, unable to concentrate, a head full of dark kinky thoughts of punishment and pain.
At the end of the session, as I lay on that beach enjoying the aftershocks of my tumultuous orgasm, the thought that Elita was going to give me another, harder caning wormed its way into my head. I became convinced that she wouldn’t be able to resist the opportunity to show her Mistress friend that she had a submissive who would take a brutal post-orgasm beating. I was horrified by this idea and became fixated on it, almost deliberately encouraging the enveloping sense of dread in order to help my body force adrenaline into my veins to replace all the dreamy endorphins.
The beating didn’t happen, but I left the basement flat as I had entered it, all adrenaline fuelled, jumpy, nervous energy and it took days for it to flush through my system. The feelings were so strong that, later in the week, I asked Elita to meet me and give me the beating I hadn’t had but the timing wouldn’t work.
Elita’s response, when I shared these feelings, was regret at not having given me that beating at the end of the session but she had, as always, read me correctly. I had been in very deep and would, I think, have handled it badly.
Sometimes she knows me better than I know myself.
The story of the super-intense first part of the session, during which I was blindfolded and alone with the unseen, unknown mistress is here.