CONSENSUAL VIOLENCE

Do you find consensual violence hot? Does that ever trouble you? I still answer a firm “Yes” to both questions.

However, consensual violence is not just one thing. The mildest foreplay spanking is consensual violence (providing both parties want it to happen), just as is a hard face slap, a kick in the testicles or a brutal judicial caning, PROVIDING BOTH PARTIES WANT IT TO HAPPEN! For me, all this is hot. Well, not being kicked in the testicles obviously! (Yes, I know I did it once. Shhhhh)

There was a great deal of consensual violence when Lyra visited from the US. We spent six hours at Facility X, a London dungeon, some with Miss Amy Hunter, a renowned expert in corporal punishment, and some with with previous kinky playmates Honey and Rosie.

Lyra is over Miss Hunter’s knee. I can see Miss H admiring the beautifully shaped target in silky lingerie beneath her hand. “Jeez! She’s spanking Lyra like she spanks me! Will this be OK?” Full force blows from a long swing, landing fast and hard. Real violence. I quickly realise we are more than OK. Lyra is breathing hard but pushing her bottom up for each blow.

It won’t be news to anyone who has read my blog, but I really do find these scenes ridiculously hot, regardless of whether I am dishing out the violence or receiving it.

Miss Hunter is caning me; solid, meaty stokes across the centre of my arse, making me work hard. She hands the cane to the less expert Lyra and shows her how to apply it. Some experimental swishing is followed by a full swing right at the top of my arse, exactly where I don’t want it. Fucking ouch! She soon finds her rhythm and her strokes have me breathing heavily. I look round and catch the excited, joyous, grin on her face. It’s clear the consensual violence of it is turning her on too.

People in this world often say that consent is itself hot. Is the consent hotter if the violence being consented to is more extreme? I think it might be.

Lyra is now lying over a pile of pillows on the black-sheeted bed. Her skin is already wonderfully pink. Miss H swings a heavy leather belt (my leather belt), wrapping it round her arse with a meaty thwack, and is rewarded with an anguished yelp. I reply with a similar stroke from my side of the bed (backhand, so not quite as hard). Again and again we beat her with our belts, catching each others’ eyes over Lyra’s prostrate form and acknowledging the coruscating hotness of what we are doing. There are over 40 strokes. Lyra is gasping and whimpering at the end, but when she finally surfaces, the huge smile on her face tells us what we need to know. 

A scene like this always feels like a wonderful gift from the masochistic bottom to the sadistic top. “Here is my body,” she seems to be saying, “Use it and abuse it for your pleasure.” The smile on the face of Miss Hunter, who sees more wrinkly, male backsides than smooth, shapely ones, suggested she was enjoying this gift as much as me.

Final scene in the dungeon. I’m in control, in command of the space. feeling centered and strong. They step forward one by one to be caned over the bench. Their reactions are totally individual. Rosie yelps then tries to blow the pain away, as her bottom marks deeply with the 12 strokes; Lyra, to my admiration, is quiet and still, shovelling the pain into a seemingly bottomless pit inside her. Perhaps having an audience has let her find new strength. Honey soaks up the 12 strokes and only makes a sound when I thrash her afterwards. Everything descends into farce when I think she’s safe-worded one stroke before the end and stop, prompting a howl of protest that she wanted them all. I repeat the last four to make up for her disappointment!

On our last evening together, Lyra and I had been building up to a punishment scene as our final me top/her bottom session. The role play was itself very erotic but, for some reason, her tolerance of the implement was lower than before. I found myself backing off to make sure we got to the total of 18 without her needing to tap out. This has happened to me too, so I was neither surprised nor disappointed by it. I hugged her reassuringly afterwards.

Later in the evening, I found myself wanting to spank her and she almost leapt on to my knee in her enthusiasm for this idea. Step by step, always with her encouragement, we got to a place I’ve never been with a spanking. I was smacking her bottom again and again as hard as I possibly could, using all my 6’2″ and 200+lbs.

And still she wanted more.

There was a visceral, almost animal, violence in what we were doing, to the point where part of me was starting to worry it might be too much, though her responses were full of as much sex as pain, and her requests for more were clear and unambiguous. In the end, it was this, a hand spanking rather than the long planned judicial caning, that turned out to be the “main event” of her stay with me, and possibly the most extreme thing we’ve done together in six months of play. When I eventually stopped, she was floating in a sea of endorphins, deep in subspace and just wanting to feel my arms round her. It was an emotional moment for both of us.

She pulled herself out of subspace long enough to give me a similarly brutal spanking with a hairbrush. Now we were both full of endorphins, neither of us making much sense. God knows who would have answered the door bell if it had sounded!

I suspect this sudden intensity and controlled brutality came from each wanting something to remember the other by. An experience to take home in her case, or keep at home in mine.

Once again it becomes clear that our love language is not acts of service, words of affirmation, or the giving of gifts.

Our love language is consensual violence.

Lots of consensual violence.