Jos and I had our Saturday date this week, and we went to the Sanctuary. He wasn’t (I could tell) feeling all that submissive, and he wanted to be sure to take in some scenes, so we hung out for a long time and watched. Two young, dressed-up doms mildly and intricately tormented a fine-looking lad. (Jos, who seems to be drifting ever so slightly towards bisexuality, remarked that he liked the boy’s sharp features and that he had “a nice cock.”) My first scene partner from the club and a casually-dressed woman co-topped a lovely woman, often rather cutely. And the expressive, lithe male bottom I talked to a couple of weeks ago had a complex scene with a well-dressed gay top. I wasn’t terrifically moved by any of it, but it was interesting.
I’ve been wanting to have a heavy pain scene with Jos for a while, and I’ve had opportunities, but I’ve always held back a little bit for one reason or another. I decided not to last night. When he was ready for our scene, I hooked him up to a cross, and warmed him up for about 20 minutes with a small, soft flogger. I could tell he wasn’t in a very submissive mindset partly because he kept saying “ow” when I hurt him. (“Ow” is different from a grunt or a scream. In the tone of voice he was using, it implies that the pain is out of line with expected reality.)
I proceeded anyway. The operative word of the night was “consent.” It was enough for me that I maintained his consent.
I hurt him very badly with the horse sweat scraper I have. He kept moving to present his ass to me, at considerable cost to himself, and I remember thinking god, I hope he knows that I see that. After a couple of minutes, I gagged him with the gag we bought last July and haven’t used since. (I didn’t fasten it around his head because I was afraid he wouldn’t be able to breathe, and would panic; he’s a mouth breather. I wanted to make sure he could spit it out himself. I told him to do three of anything as a safeword, and had him grunt three times to train my ears.)
The cross I chose was one where the top can get around the back of it, so I was able to visit him face-to-face, talk to him, kiss him, and all of that. I enjoy it a lot, and there is also something about the slightly acrobatic quality of my movements around that cross that I enjoy. For the actual hitting, I was standing to his left side, pressed up against him, my left arm across his chest, my head sometimes pressed into his shoulder blade, holding the tool in my right hand. I wanted him to be able to feel my pleasure.
It was hard for him. Really hard. I wasn’t giving him much time to recover between blows. He writhed with agony.
I took a break again and gave him some more water. (He downed about 3 large glasses overall.) When he was done drinking, I asked, “Do you still consent?” He said yes.
I worked on him then with my small plastic cane. It was hard. After a couple of minutes, he started to sob.
I held him very tightly for a minute (not hitting him) and then came around to face him. He sobbed hard. I took the gag out of his mouth. I pressed my forehead against his and stroked him.
He later asked me if I knew the scene was over at this point. The truth was, I wasn’t sure. I was willing for it to be over, but what I wasn’t sure about was whether I’d broken him and needed to stop, or whether he was having a bit of catharsis and would be good to continue.
“Is the scene over?” he asked me, and then I knew.
I took his hands down, wrapped him in a sheet, and got a chair for him to sit on. (The couches seemed to have disappeared from the dungeon.) He was still cold, so I got a blanket for him. He continued to cry a little. I stood and held him.
He wanted a couch, so I walked with him out to the social room, which was mostly empty this late. We sat on a leather couch together and I held him some more. When he wanted his shoes, I went to get them, and when I came back, he was sobbing again, and I felt like I looked like a jerk, leaving my submissive to cry alone. But he alternated between crying and hysterically laughing, and we talked to the few people there while he came down a bit.
Eventually I cleaned up our dungeon spot, gathered our stuff, and we left. We ate at Denny’s, as is traditional for us after a scene. (We actually ate there the first night we met, too. It’s the only 24 hour restaurant nearby.) As usual, I’m sure the folks at Denny’s thought we were stoned. He wore his collar through the meal.
When we got home, we had to exercise. I had let him off the hook for his exercise the previous night, and promised to do two days’ worth with him the next day, so that check came due. We hobbled exhaustedly down to the rec room at my complex and walked on treadmills for 60 minutes. It was hard.
We fell into bed. I had to look at him for a while – he was so beautiful and I felt so in love with him. And I was so hot for him. But we were way too exhausted to even consider having sex. (At some point, he said, “I’m horny, but I can’t come without your permission.” I would have gladly granted it, but all I said was “That’s true” since he had not asked.)
He turned over to go to sleep, but when I turned off the light, he was full of questions and need for me. Why did we have that scene? Did I know how hard it was? Could I please call him my slave? What did I feel when I hurt him? He turned to face me and I held him and told him everything that he knows but can’t always feel on a gut level. (You’re my slave. I love you. You’re my slave. I own you. I did that because you consented. I only need your consent. I don’t need you to enjoy it. I don’t need it to be like that all the time, but it will always be like that sometimes. There’s no escaping me.) It was intense and I loved it.
I started to let him in to my sadism a bit more. I talked about seeing and feeling the scraper hit his skin. I didn’t try to make arguments or logical sense, I just talked about it. I turned on the lamp so he could see my face. I shivered in his arms at the memory of it. I said things like, “It hit you .. it hit your skin .. it .. struck .. your skin. And it hurt you. It hurt you. It was pain. You were in pain.” I let myself go deeper into the sadism than I could during the scene, knowing that I didn’t need to stay in control now that I wasn’t actually hitting him. I looked at him with the full darkness in my eyes.
I was incredibly turned on, and when he touched me I was dying for more. And I was so, so unbelievably in love with him. With his eyes. The curve of his nose. His pain. His consent. His fear.
It was around 6 AM. We were so tired. “Fuck me,” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” he said.
And I crashed a little. I dropped. I fought back tears. “I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m just…it’s a little drop. I only…I don’t want you to serve me by fucking me,” I said. “I want to fuck with you like animals.” (When I’m sane at all, these do not feel at odds. I know the way our relationship works, and I love it.)
“I don’t have it,” he said. “I don’t have it in me.”
I crashed more. I cried, only a few tears but almost hysterically. I was gripped up tight all over, saying, “It’s OK, it’s OK, I’m fine, it’s nothing.” I was able to push past it pretty quickly (probably in less than a minute).
“All I want is…” he tried to start a few times, until I was able to open my eyes and listen. “All I want is for you take me.”
“That’s the same thing!” I said. “Jesus!”
He put a condom on and I climbed on top of him and pinned him down and made him fuck me. (No matter who is on top, I always make him do the work.) And I talked, repeating some of what I’d already said, looking into his eyes with crazy intensity. “I hurt you. I hurt you because you consented. You’re my slave and I hurt you. I took you and did what I wanted. I wanted to hurt you really bad and I did. Because you’re mine. Because I own you.”
“I want to come,” he said.
“Come!” I said.
And he did, and his legs were hurting him afterwards, and I still stayed on top of him, looking at him, for a while.
And then we slept. I had no cold resistance left and was happy to be under the thick down with his warm body. I loved him so hard. My beautiful pain slave.