THE GODDESS

“My worshipper, can you see how beautiful I am? Is worshipping me not your highest ambition?

Will you suffer for me, my worshipper?

How much will you suffer for me?”

Constrained by the layers of industrial clingfilm that hold my naked body tight to the cold steel upright, and with a gag in my mouth, I can only nod, my anguished “Yes, Goddess” failing to make it into the air. My entire body is covered in the tight, constraining film, a special and unfamiliar bondage that demands total submission.  She has used a craft knife to cut holes in the film, giving her access to me nipples and my genitals. The harsh, biting clips are removed from my nipples so she can hit them with her crop. She hits my erect cock and my balls also, all the time challenging me with her gaze. To be SO completely motionless, so completely constrained, is frightening and my eyes are pleading to her. 

Again the crop, harder this time and my inability to respond or jerk away from it ramps up the intensity.

I desperately want to drop the rubber ball in my hand, the substitute for a safe word in my gagged state. But she is so fucking beautiful, a vision in tight, body-hugging latex; all perfect skin, lustrous black hair and those dark, penetrating eyes, so I cling to the ball, make it my lifebelt in this sea of agonising sensations and determine to survive whatever comes next. 

Later, as a reward for my endurance she stripped off her latex, lay on a bench and allowed me to massage her with a soft, beautifully scented oil from a minute and clearly very expensive bottle. She tugged on the rope attached to my nipple clips or the one tied tightly round my balls if I failed to perform the massage to her exacting specifications. I massaged her back and her bottom; her naked breasts and the tops of her slim thighs. I massaged her small, delicate feet and the tips of her ears. It was sensual and erotic, my layers of reserve falling away to be replaced by a sense of deep and calm submission to the beautiful, powerful woman on the bench.

I was happy to be allowed, for that time, to be her creature, dedicated only to her pleasure, and from her pleasure to derive my own.

All this was many years ago – relatively early in my exploration of this world of dominance and submission but the memory was triggered recently by a tweet from a mistress using the same name. The Mistress I had sessioned with had been quite famous and well established, working from a beautiful and superbly equipped apartment in central London. I only saw her occasionally, each session layered with unexpected challenges to both my tolerance for pain and my willingness to submit.

Why did I stop seeing her then?

I learnt that my kinks were more self centred than was allowed by her sessions, wanting our time to be focused on me and my sensations rather than on her.* I would gladly submit to her but to “worship” her felt uncomfortably forced and I realised I was using her demanded words of supplication more by rote than because I really felt them. I learnt too that her core kinks were not served by hurting me or even by being worshipped by me, but came from a deeply ingrained narcissism. I could see her become visibly turned on by the sight of her own latex or leather clad body in the mirror as she turned this way and that to emphasis her beauty. It was quite a performance and created a stunning tableau but I was too selfish in my seeking of pleasure for that to be enough.

To stop seeing her was not an easy decision because she was a very skilled sadist and she awoke new and surprising needs and desires in me.

I’m still servicing those needs and desires now.

* That has evolved I feel, and I am completely the opposite as a Dom