A visitor once described London as a great party you’re not invited to, full of secret, niche things down side-alleys that you’d never know about if you didn’t know someone who knows someone. On Thursday, for example, shoppers at a busy street market were walking backwards and forwards over a glass pavement, under which this was going on. And this is just about as niche as it gets.
I hate this bit. It’s like being asked “how much can you take?” At the start of each session with one of the three Mistresses, she asks me to choose three or four implements from a huge desk of paddles, straps, tawses and whips and a container full of canes. I don’t bloody know! Not that one for sure, that’s really vicious; not this one either because it will make me look like a wimp; perhaps I could cope with that strap there, if she doesn’t swing it too hard. I hand it over nervously, looking for any indication of disdain towards my choice. None comes. These are professionals.
I’m at Slayers, a long establish Corporal Punishment party. Yes, you did hear that correctly. “Punishment.” “Party.” Two words that have no business being anywhere near each other, never mind locked together for a whole afternoon. Unless, that is, you are like me; or indeed like the other six men, all of a certain age, sitting in arm chairs, drinking water or wine, nibbling the free snacks while they wait their turn with Miss Hunter, Mistress Donna or Mistress Sarah, all corporal punishment specialists of considerable experience and repute.
It’s bizarre to me at first. We sit and chat, talking about BDSM experiences, politics and our kids while, from the other side of a flimsy curtain, comes the sound of someone being beaten; sometimes two or three people being beaten. Beaten hard. The meaty thwack, thwack, thwack of leather and wood on bare flesh makes me feel slightly sick as I wait. Fortunately, I’m not the only newcomer; the other wears the same “just come from a meeting” shirt and cufflinks as I do, and has the same “why am I here?” question on his face. Like me, he’s a lifetime kink at his first party. Next to him is Andy. Andy’s a strong man, a hard man. I know this from the look of him, from his stories of other, even more extreme, CP gatherings and from the horrific sounds coming from his first session. I’m a bit in awe of him. They…OK… “we” are all as varied as you might expect men who do what we do to be.
I’ve already been seen by Miss Hunter, who organises the party. She took me to a private space at the back of the main room and repeated things we had done in my one to one session with her; hard spanking, a wooden brush, a tawse on my bottom (ouch!) and my hands (bloody ouch!). It hurt, but I’d been there before and the familiarity of it was almost reassuring.
Less reassuring is choosing implements for my session with Mistress Sarah. I’m not fooled by her unforced jollity or her sunny disposition. I’m going over the spanking bench and this is going to be hard. Her hand spanking is ferocious and I feel I’m in trouble with her wooden paddle. I’m not used to wooden implements; they produce a unique type of sharply focussed pain, but she checks in two or three times to make sure I’m OK. At one point my whole body shakes and it’s a struggle to make her believe this is normal for me when things get intense. She seems worried about me. Not worried enough to stop hitting me though.
It’s almost a relief when she picks up the heavy leather strap I chose. Well, it’s a relief until she swings it. The first blow sends fire across both cheeks of my arse, the impact rich in thud, sting and burn. From somewhere I find a rhythm with my breathing, soaking up the pain, and each time she checks in with me, which she does a lot after my shaking, I tell her I’m OK. I don’t know how many times she hit me. Twenty? Thirty? It was a lot.
When I eventually raise myself slowly from the bench and return to the drinks room, I’m a bit floaty and contemplative. I’m inside myself, in the special place I go when I’m beaten. I use the process of pouring myself a cup of water as a reason not to sit down straight away.
I do this because NO-ONE HERE EVER WINCES WHEN THEY SIT DOWN and I have to make sure I don’t either!
There’s still Mistress Donna to go, then a pause for lunch and a final caning by all three mistresses working together. Bloody hell.
A bit later Andy, the hard man returns from his session with Mistress Sarah. I’m kind of pleased to see that he’s a bit quiet too and I watch as pours himself a drink just as I did. A film of perspiration on his forehead betrays the effort of soaking up the punishment he’s just taken.
However, a moment or two later and with not the faintest trace of a wince, he’s sat down and we’re back to chatting about our kids.
It’s bizarre – but, in here, in our strange world under the pavement, it’s also sort of normal.
In DM chats resulting from this blog I’m quite often told “I would try it, but I wouldn’t tolerate the pain”. This story, with its ferocious beatings, might seem off-putting to such a person and Slayers is undoubtedly not a beginner’s session. However, consider the care shown me by Mistress Sarah. My body language, my reactions to the impact of the paddle and the strap, spoke to her of distress. As it happens I was fine, my body does react to intense sensations in just the way it did here, but after each set of six blows with the strap, she came to the front of the bench, looked into my eyes and asked if I was OK and wanted to go on. This, in my experience, is entirely typical of the care shown by a professional Dominatrix with a new client. The environment is entirely safe and 100% consensual. If you’re thinking “I couldn’t take the cane” don’t let that put you off. Start with a hand spanking; see how it feels; enjoy the rewards that come after any session and only move on when you’re ready!
I may put up a picture of how my backside looked after this session on Sinful Sunday