Casting around for something to write about when I should be working, I initially rejected this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt of Whispers. Whispering, I reasoned, is not for me.
Whispering, I told myself, is for lovers, not for sex workers and their clients. It’s for intimate little pre-sex or post-sex exchanges between partners; expressions of love and passion transferred through the few centimetres of breath filled space between one person’s lips and another’s ear.
Whispering, I told myself, is for vanilla sex, not for BDSM. BDSM is about dominance and submission, instructions given and received in a voice that demands obedience. Whispers can have no place in this.
Or can they?
Thinking more, I remembered little snippets of scenes with a mistress and scenes with a submissive where whispers had been exchanged, some intimate and full of emotion, some sinister and full of menace.
Elita is leaning over me, hurting me, hurting me a lot. I’m off in subspace, eyes closed, deep inside myself, my whole being focussed on handling the pain she is feeding me.
“Look at me!” she whispers up close, her voice low, not so much a command as an invitation. And I do, and she’s magnificent, adding a visual feast to the overload of sensations I am already experiencing. The eye to eye contact causes the erotic electricity that had been absent in my subspace world to crackle between us.
I’m with Katie, my favourite little American professional submissive. It’s the start of the session and she kneels in front of me, my hands resting on her shoulders, claiming her for myself. I’m going through how I want her behave during the session, how she should address me, how she should request permission to orgasm.
Her eyes lift from their downcast, submissive gaze to meet mine.
“I love it when you do this”, she whispers, “you make me feel special”.
I kiss her forehead before continuing.
An American Mistress in a well known New York dungeon; our first session together. She drops hot wax straight from the candle directly onto my nipples. I don’t want to break the spell between us, so I hold her gaze, limiting my reaction to the sudden pain to a deep, slow intake of breath.
“Ooh, you’re good!” she whispers into my ear and, in that moment, I am utterly hers.
Lilly walks into the hotel room, drops her bag and puts her arms round me. I hug her tight and we kiss.
“Mmmm, I’ve missed you,” I whisper into her ear.
“I’ve missed you too”, she whispers into mine and I melt because I’m a client not a lover and I know she doesn’t need to say that.
And of course, there was the best whisper of them all; the one that so pressed my kinky buttons with its malice and sinister intent that I am still seeing the whisperer regularly two year’s later.
Elita in our first one to one session has me naked, blindfolded and tied to a cross within minutes of my arrival at the rental dungeon. I can’t see her but I can hear her heels clicking on the hard floor as she collects implements from around the room and lays them on a table. A cane cuts through the air but not at me. Not yet.
She’s silent for a while then whisper’s in my ear:
“You’re safe here, but I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to hurt you a lot”.
Perhaps then, I was wrong. Perhaps whispers have been an important, even vital part of my BDSM experience. Whispers, I realise, change the tone of a session and shrink the space until we occupy all of it.
Where normal speech might be addressed to a room full of people, or even to the room itself, a whisper is always person to person and always comes laden with intimate, emotional connection.
A whisper is communication as sex.
There’s more whispering going on here this week: