I was early. The grey weather persisted and subsequent influx of bad drivers to the Las Vegas valley had me worried about traffic and road safety. I left my house about 30 minutes earlier than normal and still arrived only 15 minutes early. His wife greeted me at the door and after chatting for a few minutes offered me a drink and said that Deviant requested I wait for him in the play room. I declined the beverage and headed upstairs.
Already waiting on the dresser were the requisite blue and orange plastic cups with ice water. I also noticed a switch on the floor, the Hitachi, and a few other items out of place. I lit the candles and put the toys away, then sat on the stool by the dressers. I waited, hands folded, listening to the shower down the hall and looking around the room. I always feel so cocooned there, so shielded, so protected. Odd? Maybe, considering I was there to be dominated physically and mentally, consensually injured. But I also know I am safe.
This session was not planned as much as it was... needed. My head was in a fog, I was a bit jumbled, and I was letting things bother me that did not deserve that kind of time. In truth, it was a mess of small things mostly, but between the mindfuck, the heartbreaking community service, some confusing inner monologues and a little inherent holiday sadness, it was all precariously unbalanced in my head and in my heart... I just needed some perspective, a little ego stroke, and a reminder that I was amazing, I could handle it all and then some, and I could take whatever it was that was thrown at me.... with a smile and maybe some glitter.
He walked in with the iPod and speakers, set up the music and gave me a hug. We exchanged "how are yous." He admired my shoes - red patent leather stilettos with silver heels - and expressed appreciation for the return of my perfume. No matter how apprehensive I may be about a session or its inherent pain, he always made me feel relaxed. Despite my best efforts at a foul mood the past week or so... I smiled.
However, smile or not, he wasted no time and almost immediately ordered me to lay on the floor, face down, hands above my head. I did as I was told and he stepped on my hands. The pain was intense and I felt at least one knuckle crack under his heavy - heavy! - black boots.
He asked me how it felt, his weight crushing my hands, knowing full well the answer was going to be my gasping, half-crying, staccato "Iiiii - it - it - it - huuuu - huuuu - huuurts - hurts." He pushed his heels into my arms and almost immediately elicited tears. He stopped for a moment and placed a green towel between my face and the carpet, then stood again.
He stepped up onto my back and walked on me, digging his boots into my back, shoulders, ass and hips. He stood on my legs. Sometimes it felt as if he was using the bondage table for balance and weight distribution, sometimes - so it felt - he was letting his whole body be supported by mine.
"Does that feel good?" he asked.
Under different circumstances, I could see how the act in general could be amazing. Not only for reasons of masochism but also, if done gentler, I could imagine that it would be therapeutic, massage-worthy. However, comma...
He was pressing down hard, making it hurt, making it more painful than I imagined. Alternately digging in his heels and toes, the thick soles of his boots pushing into me, flattening me against the carpet, making me cry out and gasp.
He repeated his question. "Does it feel good?" he asked more sternly.
"No!" I exhaled in pain as I said it.
"Don’t you like people walking all over you?" he asked. I was crying out, my face buried in the towel. I shook my head as he dug in harder, even bouncing slightly to make sure I felt it that much more. “No? NO?!” he asked. I was crying, shaking, desperate.
I think I said no but I may have just moved my head.
“Then why do you allow it?!” He sounded angry… worse, actually. He sounded disappointed in me. I failed him, and that hurt even more.
"You know you are better than that." he said. "We both know you don't let people do this to you; you are stronger than that, more important than that. So why [the misstep]? Why allow it then?"
I could only cry. Not only the physical pain but the verbal reminder of my mistake. The mindfuck, the punishment, the sad moments... all of it welled to the surface and cascaded down my face in heavy, salty tears.
"Why are you crying?" he asked. "You did this, right?" I nodded into the towel. "You made the mistake, you made this happen. In doing so, you allowed yourself to feel walked on, used... Yes?"
I continued to cry. I nodded, or at least I think I nodded.
He kicks my skirt up to expose the (now clean) hated, abhorrent, red crotchless panties with the silver chains. The chains, I am sure, were no longer shiny. At least not to me. They had to be dulled by now, didn't they? After what they put me through? Representing what they did?
"Good girl."
How he can call me that and, at the same time, make me feel so badly for my misstep I am still unsure. How was I a good girl for any reason right now? Yes, I asked for intensity to help clear my head. Yes, I asked him to be hard on me. But this was all wrapped into the punishment he began with the mindfuck. This is all wrapped into my wearing the perfidious panties... again. It's the pathetic fallacy, I know, giving them such emotion and power, but those panties now personified threachery, hate, and shame. I hated how I felt with them. I hated that he was pressing his feet into my ass, making me feel the chains, feel the panties against my skin. Pressing them harder against my body.
Pressing them into my psyche.
He kept walking on me, digging his boots into me. "WHY?" he said loudly, "why would you think that was a good idea?"
I didn't have an answer. I didn't know when I did it, I didn't know now. Well, that's not entirely true. Of course, in the moment, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was being thoughtful and helpful and kind. I thought I was being human and humane. I was looking for clarity, clarification. I was trying to be a friend.
"WHY?" he repeated. I didn't realize I had said some of that out loud.
"Because that's how I am. I am not so cruel as to utter eight words and leave it at that."
"WHY?"
"Because I am better than that."
"If you are better than that, why did you not just rise above it."
"I thought I did."
"Obviously...." I couldn't tell if he just didn't finish - he didn't need to - or if he was mocking me. Maybe a little of both?
"You are adored. You are loved. Get your head straight."
"I will."
"Get over this."
"Yes."
"You are amazing."
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I am amazing."
He puts all of his weight on me. "I guess we'll fix those omissions at some point." I think he sighed. I am not sure what he means. I feel that I have disappointed him in some way but I am not sure as to how.
"You are a strong, sexy, beautiful woman."
"I am."
cry
"You can do anything you set your mind to."
"Yes."
cry
"I have told you I heart you; I adore you. So why are we here? Why do we have to do this?"
He seems to sigh again.
"Fetal position," he says. "Facing away from me."
I move into position and he kicks my ass with his boot. At once, I am curling up tighter and trying to move away; the impact was intense and I wondered if this was something too intense for my body and mind. I can take a lot, but that was pain like I hadn't experienced.
"Do you like being kicked while you are down?"
"No!" I all but scream out.
He kicks me again. He kicks my ass, my hip, my legs. He steps on me, he pushes me. He kicks. And he kicks. And he kicks.
"Why would you let yourself get kicked around?"
I didn't respond... but not for lack of a response. I could have said something. But I knew, in that moment, I didn't have a new answer. There were no epiphanies. I would only be repeating myself... and it's already been said that I talk too much.
"I won't." I whispered, if it was even that loud.
"But you did." kick
"I won't."
"But you DID." kick
"BUT I WON'T!"
He steps on my hip, leaning over over me, pressing me out of the fetal position, laying me flat so he can stand on me, pressing my pelvis and thighs into the floor. "Lay straight," he says after a moment, "like you were before." I adjust my position so that I am once again laying flat on the floor, arms up, parallel with the bondage table. My face is on the towel.
"Spell it."
"I, I'm sorry?"
He tells me what he wants to hear from me. I begin spelling. He whips me with a heavy leather strap and I cry out, cry, and apologize for letting myself down and, by proxy, letting him down. I keep going. With each letter, I am whipped, slapped. By the fifth letter, I am curling up, crying – “sobbing” isn’t even enough to describe this - needing this to end.
"There's more, isn't there?" he asks. I tell him. "Keep going," he instructs.
I am gasping them out, a letter at a time. whip
Another. whip
I keep going.
whip
whip
whip
I did not think I would make it. In truth, I was hoping for a blackout. I was hoping for something that would make me not remember. I did not want to remember this pain, I did not want to remember what brought me to this moment, and I did not want to remember who or how or why I was having such a hard time.
All the little things, all the big things, all of it melding together. Nevertheless, I could not forget. I could not block it out. That is why I needed this. I needed to remember, to be reminded. I needed to embrace it, deal with it all, little, big, and in between.
In trying to process, I stopped reciting.
kick "Finish."
"I, I, I ca..." I stop. I refuse to say that I cannot do something. I know I can. He knows I can. I would not be here, with him, in this space, regardless of whether it was to be punishment or play, if I could not do it.
"Yes, Sir."
"Aaahhhh," he says, a smile in his voice, "She said, 'Sir!'" He was right. I had not said it all evening. That is what I was omitting. I had not thanked him. I had not honored his position, his intent. I felt even more miserable now. He was doing this for me. He asked me if this is what I wanted (in theory, of course; the practice was all his choosing), what I needed... and I had not given him the respect he was giving me. I was taken away from the sadness that brought me here and found myself instead saddened by my inability to see how much care and respect I was being given in this moment.
kick "FINISH!"
Brought back to the moment, I keep going. I keep spelling.
whip
whip
whip
I am crumpled, crying, pained, and beyond fragile. I am finished. Well, finished counting off. Or, at least, I hope I am.
"Straighten out," he tells me. I have curled up in pain. I think I am clutching the towel he had laid down for me, clutching the leg of the bondage chair. Something, anything. I was afraid to move, afraid I could not move.
But I can, I do. I adjust my body into its original position.
He kneels on the floor and presses my face into the towel, then moves to kneel on me, his knees in the depression created by the curve from my back to my ass. He presses his knees into me and then moves to straddle me, his hands pushing on my back, my shoulders, my neck, and my arms.
He lays his body over mine, his mouth close to my ear. "You are better than that." It is almost a whisper. His elbows are resting on my shoulders, his hands are on my head pressing firmly - but not uncomfortably - around me.
"Yes, Sir." I cannot speak, I am crying the words out. There is no other way.
"You can do better than that."
cry
"Yes, Sir."
"Are we done with this?" I do not presume he means the punishment, the lesson, or the session. He will decide when that is done. I do know he means the topic, the misstep, the mistakes I have made. "You are strong. You are amazing."
"Yes, thank you, Sir."
"You are loved, adored; you have admirers. You are better than all that you have allowed yourself in this situation. You know that, right?"
"Yes, thank you, Deviant."
He lay on me for another moment or five, his body warm against mine, his forehead at the back of my neck.
"We are done with this," he says quietly, pushing me into the floor and pushing himself up. "I mean it."
"Yes, Sir."
"Done."
"Yes, Sir."
"Get on your knees." I do. He hugs me from behind, briefly, and tells me to stand. "Take those off." He does not have to explain what I am to remove. I know very well I am now allowed to remove the abhorrent panties. I do.
"You will keep them," he tells me as I am putting them into my bag. "You will clean them and keep them. Put them in a Ziploc bag, deep in the back of a drawer, and keep them safe. These will be your punishment panties. We don't want them to reappear, do we?"
"No, Sir."
"Good girl."
He gives me my cup and asks if I am OK. I nod, drinking the cold water. I hand the cup back, thanking him.
He hugs me and says we will now focus on having some fun. I nod. I want to cry some more, but know that this moment is the separator, the divide between the punishment, the rough - though necessary - part of the session. I don't cry. I embrace it. I steel myself against the turmoil and feel my head clearing. Whether it is real clarity or just a need to be clear, I don't care at that moment. I need to not be so taken down by it, I need to be stronger than that. I need to stand up and be my best self, my own evil twin, my Muse, the Muse. I need to have the same faith in my abilities to move onward and upward as others have faith in me. As he has faith in me.
He tells me to get up on the bondage table, laying on my back. He uses overhead suspension cuffs that I can only describe as boxing glove-style, heavy leather cuffs around my hands and wrists, leaving my fingers free. He attaches the cuffs to the table and straps me down along the pelvic bone and, legs spread, right above my knees.
"Now we have some fun," he starts.
He punches my left thigh. Hard. If I could buck, I would, but I am immobile. I can and will take it. He hits me again and then moves away. My eyes are facing up; I cannot see what he is getting from the toy racks, but I can hear him moving about and I soon feel a sharp stinging where he hit me before. The small bamboo canes, most likely, but it could be any number of paddles or canes or whips. He focuses on the same spot - the SDS, or Same Damn Spot - for a while, making me cry and cry out.
He teases me, taking a break and exposing my breasts, playing with my pierced nipples and asking if they are healed. I nod, I say that they are, and he pulls on them, hits them, and twists them. He squeezes me and presses me into the table, and he slaps my pussy with his toys and his hands.
"This feels better, doesn't it?" I nod.
It fucking hurt.... but in a way I wanted, in a way devoid of punishment and humility. It felt infinitely better. "Yeeeessss, Ssssiiirr."
"This is more enjoyable, isn't it?" As I am nodding, saying yes, I feel that sharp pain again across the SDS on my thigh. I cry out, scream, and he hits me repeatedly, at least ten times, fast and hard. I am biting my tongue and lips, tears soaking my eyes, my legs and hips straining at the leather straps, my arms pulling on the cuffs.
"Mmmmm, you should see this." It takes me a moment, but I realize he is talking about the results of his beating on my leg. He tells me to wait a moment. I close my eyes and I think I hear him leave the room.
Soon, I hear a camera shutter. He sounds disappointed that it's not showing up the way he wants, and I hear him open a dresser drawer and then feel him return to the table.
He squeezes my abused leg and makes me jump, my eyes opening wide. Then I hear the Hitachi turn on before he places it against me. I do not have to adjust and neither does he. The instruction to "get it where you want it" is not needed tonight. It had been almost a week since I had an orgasm - well, seven orgasms - because I could not bring myself to enjoy it after the previous Thursday night. I wasn't in the right place, the right space.
I came almost immediately.
"Already?!" He pressed the Hitachi harder against my clit. "Are you going to come again?" I just nodded, gasping, unable to speak. I was already there, I could feel it building, and I could feel my body, my mind, releasing in waves, over and over. He kept it against me and began hitting me, pinching me, causing me pain and testing me. He asked me if I could come again, if I could do it while he was causing me pain. I needed it so badly; I was so tense, so wound up, I am not sure I could have been stopped. He hit my thigh and my breasts and my stomach. He pressed one hand over my face to control my breathing.
And still, I came.
"Whore."
I smiled.
He took my right hand out of its cuff and placed my hand between my legs. He used the Hitachi on my nipples as I made myself come, twice. He employed breath control again, pain, and pressure. And still I masturbated, still I came. I was dripping wet, oversensitive, and in great pain.
And I was happy.
He moved to the left of the table again and began caning my leg again. He was using two thin canes in a drumming motion and, at one point, commented on the music being perfect... for hitting me fast, harder than ever, and along with the rhythm.
While he was drumming my thigh, the pain searing up and down my body, he is talking to me. "So you are traveling for Christmas?" he asked. "Going out of town?" I nodded; I may have squeaked out a verbal affirmation.
"Are you going to cheat on me?" I shook my head and tried to say no. "Are you going to lick the pussy of some big-tittied woman while you are gone?" I all but yelled the word No. I was clenching my jaw, biting my tongue, the pain was so great. I had no play plans, I tried to tell him. I was not going to...
AAAUUGGGHHH
The pain was searing; the thin canes were flaying my skin, I was sure of it. I was crying, crying out.
He stopped. He unhooked the other cuff so I could feel my leg, feel the welts. He was smiling, he seemed proud.
"Thank you, Sir" I tried to be louder than a whisper. "Thank you, Deviant."
He helped me up and told me I did a good job. I was given my water and supported while I sat up and drank, balanced my head, and breathed.
He had me stand and he hugged me. He asked if I was better and I said yes. He moved away and sat in the bondage chair. He motions for me to sit at his feet and tells me to put my hands on the floor. He looks me in the eye as I sit in front of him as instructed and he presses his boots down on my hands. He then digs his soles into my thighs. He is reminding me. He doesn't look away as he makes sure his heels and his actions are leaving the desired impressions.
My gaze remains steady. I understand this. I accept this.
"Take them off." I raise the legs of his jeans to unlace and remove his boots, one at a time. "Keep them together; set them aside properly." I do.
"You do not want to see these boots in this room again," he says. "Do you understand?"
I nod.
"Do. You. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Good girl."
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