Many of my real fantasies, the ones I find in my head when I’m disturbed or stressed, are dark and non-consensual punishment scenes. Sometimes I’m the perpetrator and sometimes I’m the one being punished but the consistent components are an unwilling, tightly bound victim, and the authority figure handing out corporal punishment of escalating violence. I used to think these fantasies marked me out as weird or perverted but so long as they are just fantasies and stay locked away in my head, I can live with myself.
But supposing I was to turn one of those fantasies into a kinky role play and actually enact it with a willing sex worker – or even two – letting my imagination run riot, taking those dark, violent scenes out of my head and re-creating them; I think I could go for that.
Perhaps it could be the governess with the birch. I’m the master of the house and I have the cruel governess bend the hapless girl over a leather chair and beat her with a bundle of birch twigs while I’m watching. I always liked that one; I could see Elita as the Governess. Or maybe I’d play out the swimming pool scene; two bratty girls have pushed someone into the pool and one of them, her tight one-piece swimsuit still wet, is held down by the other on the hard, wooden bench at the side of the pool. I’m going to punish her with a cane, then they’ll change places. That would be a great scene to play out.
Or, perhaps, if I was really adventurous, I could realise my Victorian prison fantasy: A woman sentenced to corporal punishment in an intimidating, unforgiving prison. I’d be the cruel, harsh gaoler, responsible for carrying out the sentence. Yessss…. that would be hot as fuck. But it would hinge on finding the right venue. That’s a role play that wouldn’t work in a hotel bedroom!
Oh! Hang on! We could use The Bunker, the old war-time underground shelter turned BDSM rental dungeon with its bare, brick walls and its spanking benches and flogging frames, all made of cold steel. No great leap of imagination would be required to see The Bunker as the punishment room in a Victorian prison.
There’s a moment in that fantasy that kind of defines it for me. The girl, wearing loose-fitting Victorian bloomers is bent over a bench. In my role as jailor, I take my time tying her down, leather straps across her body, her thighs, her calves. Cuffs on her wrists are clipped to the side of the frame. All the time she’s feeling more and more helpless, each restraint making her predicament seem more extreme, more dire. I’ve deliberately leant the cane against the wall in front of her; it seems impossibly long, a brutal implement. She can’t even begin to imagine how its impact might feel.
Then, the last restraints finally in place, I grab the thin cotton of her bloomers. She’s expecting me to slip them down to expose her otherwise naked backside for punishment. But I don’t slip them down, not exactly. With a single violent movement, I rip them apart. The seams give way like a zip as the loose material is torn aside, leaving her pale, unmarked bottom exposed to the cold air of the dungeon. Her fear in that moment; her sick knowledge that, after all the build-up, now is the time for that fearsome cane to strike; that would be a very special thing to see, to witness, to be part of.
So yes, this Victorian prison scene is the one. Two girls, I think, so they can witness each other’s punishment, comfort each other as the pain escalates, pleasure each other when they think I’m not looking. That’s the fantasy I’m going to play out. I’ve booked the submissives, rented The Bunker, run it all through a hundred times in my head.
But that key moment, the moment when the thin white bloomers are ripped open, has to be just right. The entire scene depends on it. And that’s all about finding precisely the right article of clothing.
Fortunately, as the picture below shows, the internet has made that possible.
I’m one evil, kinky fucker, I really am.