Me, two days ago, to Mistress Elita: “Hi! I hope you are well. I might need to be smacked around a bit and was wondering if you had any time available on….”
The present: So here I am, sat in a bar at the station. I’d look unremarkable to you, a businessman having something to eat before he goes home, though you might notice how still I seem. On the table in front of me are a beer and some comfort food: sausages, mash, onion gravy. I should eat it before it goes cold but I’m struggling to move just now, my arms and legs are too heavy.
My breathing is still unusually fast but is quite shallow. My eyes are unfocussed, just staring into the distance. Truth is, I’m a bit lost; kind of locked up inside myself, feeling very small. I can feel my shirt against the rawness of my back, the chair against the deep bruising on my arse, I can feel the soreness of my nipples.
I’m feeling like I’m in shock.
I’m feeling like I’ve been smacked around a bit.
Tied to a flogging frame. Her long thick whip, biting into my arse. Then a heavy flogger, thudding into my back; the unfamiliar weight of it going through to my ribs: smack, smack, smack, smack relentlessly. Then the whip on my arse again until I’m shaking the heavy metal frame against its mountings and crying out. This is harsh for me, beyond our normal level of play, and the safe word keeps appearing in my head but every time it does, in fact at the exact moment the safe word appears in my head, she stops, somehow knowing, just as she always knows. At those times she leans her long body against mine, her cool soothing against the heat of my skin, or perhaps she grabs my nipples, changing my focus away from the brutality of what she’s just being doing so that, when she picks the whip up again, the safe word has faded away.
She unclips me from the flogging frame and ties me down on a long leather covered steel bench and starts again, alternating between whipping my arse with her dreaded, two-tailed “Hydra” whip, a fierce implement, and flogging my back, working first from one side then the other, three maybe four sessions with each implement.
She’s pushing me hard now and I’m feeling really challenged and not a little concerned; I’m frightened of where this is taking us.
“I’m liking where this is taking us” she breathes, picking up the flogger once more, hitting me properly hard across my back again and again. It’s brutal. Absolutely brutal.
The cane she reaches for is long, thick and heavy. The first blow bites deep, sending shock waves through me with the weight and the pain of it.
I think: “OK, I can maybe get to six, then she’ll pause.”
There’s no pause at six.
“Can I make twelve? Perhaps I’ll make 12, then she’ll pause.”
There’s no pause at twelve.
She never pauses. Not once.
She’s hitting me fast and hard, a blow every second, maybe every two seconds, definitely not more, piling pain on pain on pain. I lose count at 24 but it goes on long after that: Thirty? Forty? Afterwards, she didn’t know either. By the end I’m making a lot of noise, breathing hard, vocalising and spluttering into the leather bench, close, very close, to tears.
Finally, finished with the cane, she turns me over, ties my cock and balls tight, clamps my already ragged nipples and sits over me. It is so erotic to see her above me like this, strong and dominant in her beautiful lingerie. She works on my cock with her hand; she works on it until it’s hard, hard like a ceramic dildo is hard, wanking it, wanking it, wanking it, more and harder, bringing me nearer and nearer to an orgasm.
It’s intense. Oh, my God, it’s all so fucking intense!
That’s when I used the safe word.
I just couldn’t’ take any more. Yes I wanted to come, just as I always want to come. But it was already too much. This time it wasn’t the pain but the accumulated physical and emotional intensity that pushed me past my limits, pushed me to the safe word and forced me to call a halt.
I was already lost, already somewhere deep inside myself.
Someone who looked a bit like me chatted with Elita for a few minutes and gave her a long, tight hug before handing over the customary envelope and leaving. He stumbled slightly stepping into the street. I’m not quite sure where I was while this was going on. I’m just glad to have found myself again, here in the pub at the station.
At the start of the session Elita had said she was going to hurt me till I asked her to stop. I never did and I’m obviously a bit proud of that. But more than that, I’m blown away as always by Elita’s skill and by her ability to read me. To take someone that close to their limit, to do so time and time again without ever quite taking them too far, takes great skill, empathy and understanding.
And that’s why I keep going back to her…..when I need to be smacked around a bit.