ON THE HANDS

It’s like nothing else in BDSM. Nothing. You’d think it wouldn’t be eroticisable, being hit on the hands with a tawse. But it’s hot. It’s intensely, coruscatingly hot.

A moment of supreme violence, carried out face to face, kinky electricity crackling between giver and receiver.

The impact is a bolt of out-of-control pain that goes straight through the too thin flesh of your palms and shoots up through the delicate bones of your hands. You know this, and yet you hold your hand still, eyes locked with the Mistress as she lines up the implement.

It’s that moment just before she actually does it. That’s what it’s about. Time stands still. You’re horrified and fascinated at the same time. You don’t want to show fear; you want to show a calm acceptance of the challenge in her eyes, but it’s hard to do that and becomes harder each time the thick, heavy leather strikes home.

But you do it. You hold your hand there, just to show her, to show yourself too, that you have that measure of control; that you are equal to her challenge and you understand, as she does, that there is so much more going on here than just one person hurting another.

morning after bruising

Of course, there was more to my session with the wonderful Miss Hunter than this. I’d asked her to let me fully explore the tawse and she took me deeper with it than she has before.

It was very intense.

At the end she was swinging a heavy tawse hard, it’s twin tails of centimetre-thick leather crashing into my bottom again and again. It was brutal but I found that special place where time slows and I can relish the connection with the Mistress as I relish the extreme sensations she is causing.

I found that place where I wanted her pain.

And, over Miss Hunter’s bench in a BDSM dungeon on a Friday afternoon, I wanted all of it. The deep bruising on my bottom the following morning suggested that all of it is exactly what I got.

the wonderful Miss H. Suitably armed