Bloody hell! Quite the session, this. The sort of thing I haven’t done for a while. So much challenge. Twisting, writhing, vocalising the pain of it. Sucking in air in the pauses. Lost, deep in subspace.
“Choose 10 implements,” she says.
I hate that instruction. It makes sense though. Apart from my session with Miss H, I haven’t done this for a long time. “Choose some implements” lets me show her where I think I am. I give it my best shot, only to see her tutting through my selection and adding 6 of her own to fill what she sees as the inadequacies and gaps in my choices.
To be honest, I wasn’t at my best. I never sleep well in Vegas and this time it’s become a real issue. On top of problems with recent blood pressure medication, it all has me taking a time-out half way through as I start feeling feint. My arms were strung up over my head, which never helps.
With consummate expertise she mixes it up: stokes on my bum are followed by strokes on my back, stingy is followed by thuddy, challenge is followed by something that feels like a massage. Nipple clips get in the way of processing the blows, and for once I don’t enjoy their constant, spiky pain.
But, although I’m up and down with it all, I get to the end, the end being a beating with a short, thick cane that hurts deep, deep down. I really get on top of this, leaning into it, soaking it up, finally where I’ve been trying to get to for the last hour or so.
I feel my old self again. Strong, comfortable in my body and with who and what I am.
She considers for a moment. I feel she’s appraising me carefully.
“Stay down there!” She commands. “I want to use this”
“This” is a flogger. It’s not any flogger though. It’s clearly not designed for flogging humans but for flogging orcs, or for orcs to flog their captives. It’s somehow just not human in scale. It was hand built specially for a Dominatrix friend of Mistress K. The whole thing is well over 3 feet long, the handle is thick as a human wrist and it carries 50 or 60 leather tails each half an inch wide. It weighs about 5 pounds. Or 5 kilograms. Or 5 Middle Earth stones. I’ve no clue, but it’s unfeasibly heavy.
I wonder how my slim mistress can contemplate wielding this monstrous implement from a fantasy world of dungeons and orcs.
I’m terrified. I can’t process the idea that she’s going to hit me with this.
But, as the first blow thuds home, I involuntarily call out, “Yes!” And find that I’m still calling out “Yes!” ten blows later, as if to urge the Mistress on to greater efforts.
I’ve been thinking about this for a full day and I still can’t articulate why this was my response.
Defence company BAE systems has invented a body armour made from what is essentially a liquid. It has the amazing property that, through an effect called “Shear Thickening,” the harder it is impacted, the stronger it becomes. Strong enough for a thin layer of this material to stop a bullet. Today, I am made of liquid armour, and the harder this fearsome, outlandish implement lands, the stronger I become.
It’s completely fucking amazing.
I’m on my hands and knees, the Mistress standing behind me, but the blows on my back are so heavy, so crushing, I struggle to support myself so drop onto my elbows, head close to the floor.
I know it sounds horrific but what I feel is somehow different from pain. It’s a huge flood of sensation that is instantaneously in each part of my body. How can a sensation be so completely overwhelming and yet not be experienced as pain?
With each blow I am knocked further into subspace until, when she finally stops, I can’t speak and don’t hear anything but my own deep, measured breathing.
I drift, an autumn leaf on a wide, calm river, heading gently downstream towards the boundless sea.
Fuck.