COMPLICIT (guest post from @19syllables)

My friend @19syllables was one of the people I invited to my hotel room on the Friday night of Eroticon. “A chance to see a professional Dominatrix at work” I told them. She hadn’t wanted to come at first, nervous about how she might react.

I was glad she did, and am doubly so, now I have read this.

We are complicit in the violence. Bystanders always are, that’s the rule with violence. I’m close to it; standing just to the side of the bed to witness his pain. I’m so close that sometimes I can feel the wind of the two tailed whip as it flicks through the air. It even brushes me once; only lightly as all the heat and bite of it has already been powered into his back. I’m holding my champagne glass by its stem and I tilt my weight into one hip just as I would at a cocktail party. But this is a wordless cocktail party. There’s no small-talk here. Not now.

He’s breathing heavily, reeling from the last strike of the whip, or preparing for the next, by now his reactions rolling together into one. He’s in pain, real pain, and he’s struggling to keep on top of it. It’s hot, really hot. I think I might be smiling.

When we first arrived, it was B’s space; his hotel room, his idea, his friends, his terms, his easy hospitality. But Elita turned that upside-down when she came in, all skin and gloss as she slammed him up against the wall. This is her space now. She commands it with her posture and sexual presence. She moves like a racehorse, with elegance and strength and rippling power.  For now, she owns him, and to some extent we are all hers too – and that feels ok – I feel as if we are in safe hands.

She corrals us occasionally:

“Let’s all go through to the bedroom.” she smiles.

“Please pass me that nasty looking wooden paddle.” I do.

“Move back a little so that I can get some swing into this.” We accommodate her.

Oh yes, we are complicit.

And I like it.

She whips him and slaps him, she constricts him, and she twists his nipples. Her posture is dance-like, methodical and measured. It’s fluid and deliberate, considered. But inside the brutality there is care, she whispers and strokes, she curls her cool skin onto the angry redness of his back and arse. She checks, she looks, she smooths, she soothes.

The final barrage of cane strokes is unrelenting. I have to remember to breathe as, in the crescendo of the session, she slams the instrument into him again and again without pause. All of us are spellbound. I will him to make it stop and I will him to take it all.  Only at the moment when he can absolutely take no more she stops and softens. She holds him, whispering something imperceptible in his ear, holding his head and looking into his face as if only the two of them exist. She kisses him.

After all this violence, all this brutality, which I have brazenly enjoyed, it is this moment of searing intimacy that finally forces me to look away.

I’m the first to speak;

“We should go in the other room now” I say, maybe mostly to myself.

The amazing in this post is by www.focussedandfilthy.com