behavior correction

“The ultimate result of shielding men from the effects of folly, is to fill the world with fools.”
Ritter von Leopold Sacher-Masoch, Venus in Furs

 

A Dominant is many things, among these a teacher.  Whether by design or default, it is often a big part of the role.  Our submissives are the default students.  Sometimes, they’re slow learners, like *Brent.   This gentleman has been coming to play with me for a few months.  He makes a lot of lofty claims about how he wants to be trained as a slave.  He talks a big game about wanting to be useful to me and to the other Mistresses of our house, but he is careless and inattentive to instructions.  These are not desirable qualities in a slave, or anyone else, really.  When he showed up late for today’s training session I decided he was gonna learn, one way or another.

“I explicitly told you that you were to arrive precisely on time, Brent.  Would you like to explain to me why you are ten minutes late?”

Brent was on his knees in front of my throne.  He gave a casual, half hearted shrug.  “I don’t know.  Traffic I guess?  It was only ten minutes.”

“Only ten minutes?  Ok, since that’s how you feel about it, our time together will be cut ten minutes short today.”

“Heeeey,” Brent drawled.  “That’s not fair.  Ten minutes isn’t a big deal.  Why does it have to come out of my time?”

“Well, it certainly isn’t my fault you were late, Brent.  I was here and ready to go, right on time.  But since you claim ten minutes isn’t a big deal to you, then you shouldn’t mind absorbing the penalty.  Unless you were rescuing a lady who was tied to some railroad tracks, you’re eating the ten minutes.  Next time, don’t be late.”  I paused, gave him a moment to express further objection or acceptance.  He did neither, which was just as well.  I was about done listening to him anyway.  I tore off a piece of duct tape and applied it firmly to his mouth.  He gave me a questioning look as I did this.  “What, you think I want to listen to your mouth today?  First you claim ten minutes isn’t a big deal, but it sure seems like it’s a big deal when it’s about your time instead of mine.  Do you think your time is worth more than mine?  Is that it?  You think I have no life plans aside from waiting for you to show up at your leisure?”  I buckled a training collar around Brent’s neck, then grasped it and tugged it until he lifted his head to look at me.  He shook his head “no”.

“I’m glad we agree on that point, Brent.  Because when you show up late, especially after being reminded to be on time, that is inconsiderate of my time.  I am not willing to tolerate it.  Do you understand this?”  I was still grasping the back of Brent’s collar.  I gave it another brief, sharp tug just to punctuate my point.  He nodded.

“Good.” I let go of Brent’s collar.  “Hands and knees, now.”  Brent obediently assumed the position.  I knelt next to him.  He turned his head to look at me.  “No.  Look at the floor.  I will tell you when I want you to look at me.”  Brent did as he was told.  “All right Brent.  Now I want you to understand that things are going to change.  More to the point, you are going to change.  Your carelessness, your lack of attention to instruction, your habitual tardiness, your overall slacking …all of this ends today.  Nod if you understand me.”

Still facing the floor, Brent nodded.

“Very good.  Now, I want you to crawl to that wall over there by the door.  Kneel on the floor with your back against the wall, knees apart, hands on top of your thighs.  Do that, and wait for me.  I have to get a few things so I will be a minute.”  I left the room as Brent crawled toward his destination.  There were a few things in the other play room I wanted to assemble: a tube of IcyHot, and some wooden clothes pins.  Also, I wanted to give Brent a chance to fuck up the instructions I had just issued.

He didn’t let me down.  Upon my return to the playroom, I opened the door and it would barely budge.  I put my weight into the effort, gave the door a good hard shove, and heard a grunting sound from the other side.  Then the door gave way and opened, and what do you suppose I saw?  Brent, sprawled on the floor, with a surprised look on his face.

I strode over to where lay askew, and yanked the duct tape off his mouth.  He gave a little yelp when I did this.  Good.  “Well, what’s the goddamned problem, Brent?  Is there some reason I couldn’t open the door, and now I find you on the floor instead of against the wall where you were supposed to be?”

“I thought you told me to kneel with my back against the door.”

Good lord.  Really?

“Against the door, Brent?  Against the door?”  I loomed over Brent, who cowered on the floor beneath me.  “Why in the hell would I tell you to kneel with your back against the door?  Did I not tell you I was coming back in just a minute?  Was I supposed to come in through the window?”

“I, uh, don’t know, Mistress…I thought you said…”

“You thought I said, what?  You know god damned good and well there is no earthly reason why I would tell you to kneel with your back against the door.”  I grasped the lead ring on his collar and forced him into a semi upright kneeling position.  “Crawl.  Right now.  Get over here to this wall and kneel, like I told you to do in the first place.”

Brent scrambled to obey me.  In a few seconds, he was in the position I had ordered before leaving the room: kneeling, back against the wall, knees apart, hands on top of his thighs.  He kept his eyes forward, apparently fixed on some undetermined spot on the rug.  I stood in front of him, straight and tall as the Colossus, crop in hand.

“Brent, I’m pretty tired of your carelessness.  When I give instructions, I expect them to be followed to the letter.”

“yes, Mistress.  I understand.”

“No, Brent, I don’t think you do understand.  I hear you telling me that you understand, but your actions show that you are pretty clueless.  So, I think it’s time for a bit of remedial education.”  I knelt in front of Brent, uncapped the IcyHot, and applied a bit to each of his nipples.  Then, before the tingle set in fully, I attached two clothes pins.  Brent winced and grimaced.  “Now.  What  did I tell you to do before I left the room?”

“Uh, you told me to kneel…”

“Yes, I told you to kneel.  Continue, please.  Where did I tell you to kneel?”

“I, uh, thought you told me to kneel with my back against the door, but I don’t know….”

“What, Brent?  What don’t you know?”  I used my riding crop to give the right clothespin a nicely measured little smack.  Brent squeaked out a little yelping noise when I did this.  I dug the heel of my boot into his flesh and leaned in closer.  “What don’t you know, Brent?”

“I don’t know …it doesn’t make any sense.”

“What doesn’t make any sense?”  I brought the riding crop down on his left nipple, a little harder this time.  He shrieked.

“It doesn’t make any sense that you’d tell me to kneel with my back against the door when you were just about to come back in.”

“There we go!  That’s the first insightful thing you’ve said all day.”

“Thank you, Mistress.  I’m trying.”

“Stand up,” I ordered him.  “Now.  Quickly.”

Brent was on his feet in about two seconds.

“Stand straight.  Shoulders back.  Feet about shoulder width.  Hands at your side.  And lower your face; you don’t get to look at me like we’re equals.”

Brent carried out these instructions with sufficient accuracy.

“Now, Brent, it seems that you don’t listen very well unless I do something to compel your attention.  As soon as I put the IcyHot and the clothespins on your nipples, you got smart in a hurry.  Do you know what that means?”

“No Mistress?”

“It means that now I know how to get your attention, so I will be making both our lives simpler.  Hold out your hand, if you please.”

Brent produced his right hand.  I dispensed about an inch of IcyHot into his waiting palm.

“Now I want you to apply this to your dick.  Rub it on there, and try not to have too much fun because I have plans.”

Brent attended to the task as mandated.  “Hey, don’t forget the balls.  Make sure you get it all over.  Do you need more?”

“No, Mistress.  I think there’s enough.”

“Oh good.  Open your legs a bit farther.”  Brent complied.  I pulled up a stool, sat down, snapped on a pair of latex gloves.  Then I began attaching clothespins to the skin of his scrotum.  Brent made a little whiny gasping sound every time the tightly hinged wooden jaws bit into his flesh.  I figured a half dozen was enough.  I glanced up at Brent’s face as I applied the last clothes pin.  His jaw was clenched, perspiration forming on his forehead and upper lip.  Still watching his face, I flicked one of the clothes pins.  He made a sort of squeaky grunting sound when I did that.  I snickered and twisted the clothespin.  An abrupt little shriek followed.  Satisfied, I dispensed with the gloves.

I sat on my throne.  “kneel on the floor in front of me.  Be careful to not dislodge any of the clothes pins.  If you do, I’ll add an extra one for every one you knock off.”

Brent lowered himself to a kneeling position.  Whether through luck or effort, he managed to not displace any clothes pins.

“Knees far apart, now.  Hands on the floor behind you.  Lean back, and hold that position until I tell you differently.”

Tentatively, Brent placed his palms on the floor and leaned backward, his arms bearing the weight of his upper body.  Still sitting on the throne, I extended my leg and rested the sole of my boot against his chest, squarely between the clothes pins.  He absorbed this extra weight.   A tiny rivulet of sweat trickled down his left temple.  Deliberately, with carefully measured force, I dug the heel of my boot into his flesh.  His jaw clenched and his neck cords bulged under the strain of the added weight, but he remained more or less steady.

“Ok, Brent.  It seems that I have your undivided attention at long last.  Are you ready to listen to me?”

He nodded.  “Yes, Mistress.”

“Great.  Because from now on, repeated lessons will be exponentially more painful.  So it would be a lot better for you if we don’t have to revisit today’s drills.”  I nudged him once more with the heel of my boot, just to drive the point home.

“I understand, Mistress.”

“Good.”  I lowered my foot, demurely crossing my ankles.  “Now I want you to stand up.  Carefully, the same way you knelt.  Stand with your back against the St. Andrew’s cross, with your feet wide apart.”  Brent duly followed these orders.  I knelt and used rope to bind his ankles to the legs of the cross, then another piece of rope to secure  his midsection to the center of the cross.  Finally I fastened leather cuffs around his wrists, which I clipped behind his back.  Once he was secured, I gave him a final cursory inspection: all the clothes pins were still in place.  One on each nipple, six on his scrotum.  I observed his face.  His jaw was set. His nostrils flared in cadence with the rise and fall of his chest.  His breathing was a little fast, but regular.

I stepped away from the cross and inspected the toys: an assortment of whips, crops, floggers, and paddles were displayed on the wall, suspended from hooks.  Some were made of leather, some of rubber, and others of wood.  All of them well kept and cared for.  Briefly touching or even glancing at any toy calls to mind immediate memories of use.  Finally my eyes fell on the tool I sought: the dragon tail whip.  A beautiful, well made, elegant  creation.  One of my personal favorites.  I caressed the  length of the tail: twenty two inches of beautiful, supple, evenly thick leather.  I lifted it, allowing  myself  a moment to marvel at the craftsmanship of the steel handle.  I have used it well and in good faith, whether to reward or to discipline.  Today would be no different.

“It is the duty of a Mistress to see that her servant is well trained.  Obedient, punctual, mindful.”

“Yes, Mistress.  You’re right.”

“Lately, I have had difficulty in getting you to manifest self discipline.  You don’t listen.  You are sloppy about following directions.  Just today, you were late for your training.  These behaviors do not bode well for one who wishes to be trained as a slave.”

“I understand, Mistress.”

“Do you understand, Brent?”

“I do, Mistress.  I am really sorry I displeased you.  I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh, I know.”  I smiled and nodded, still fingering the whip.  “I know you didn’t mean to.  I know it wasn’t your intention.”  Still holding the whip, I stepped closer to Brent, until I was nearly toe to toe with him.  I eased my fingers under his collar, pulling his face just a bit closer to mine.  “That’s the problem, Brent.”  I spoke very softly now, to compel his undivided attention.  That’s one thing I have learned during my years in the play room: if you really want them to listen, don’t raise your voice at all.  Lower it to a near whisper.  It worked: even the hairs on his arms stood at attention, like a few thousand tiny satellites tuning into every syllable.  “The problem is you have no intentions.  You don’t intend to mess up, but you also don’t intend to excel.  You’re just kinda here.  Like furniture.  And you know, that’s just not good enough for me.”  I punctuated the last syllable by tweaking the clothespin on his right nipple.

Brent blinked, shuddered, and finally nodded.  “I understand, Mistress.  You are right to punish me.”

Whip in hand, I took two steps backward.  My eyes never left  Brent’s face, which showed a mixture of fear, resignation, and even a bit of relief.  Finally, he would be held to a standard.  He would answer for his slacking, slothful ways.

I took aim, measured my distance, and let the whip fly.  It lurched forward with an audible snap.  Right on mark, the tip of the whip made contact with the left clothes pin, which gave up it’s grip and fell to the floor.  Brent sucked in air and grimaced.  Quickly, as  soon as the whip recoiled, I took aim again: this time at the clothes pin on the left.  Head thrown back, neck tendons straining, Brent roared in pain.

“I know this is hard, Brent, but it’s necessary.  Tell me why you are being punished, please.”

Brent gasped and gulped in air, and managed to stutter: “because- because I am careless and disobedient and I don’t listen!”

“That’s right.  Very good.  I am glad you are beginning to see the error of your ways.  Now Brent, it’s very important that you remain still now.  You don’t want to move.  Trust me.  This is going to hurt, but it will hurt much less if  I  make my target… and the only way I can do that is if you don’t move at all.”  I was already poised and taking aim at one of the clothespins on his scrotum.  Carefully, steadily.  As soon as I was certain of my mark, I snapped my wrist forward and the whip flew.  It knocked off one of the clothes pins.  Brent wailed and strained against his bounds.  After his reaction was over, I aimed again: another clothes pin fell to the floor.

“I don’t appreciate having my time wasted, Brent.  I expect you to arrive on time for your training sessions.  You will  be prompt and considerate of my schedule.”

“Yes, Mistress!”

Brent’s legs were trembling, but he endured without moving.  Still, steady, calmly I aimed again.  And again.  Brent let out a sobbing howl.  “I’m sorry Mistress… I will do better.”  .. “I know, Brent.  It’s okay.  We’re almost done here.  Only two more clothes pins.  I need you to hold still for just a few more seconds.”  Carefully, I drew back the whip, took aim, and let it go.  The whip sailed forward, slicing through the air with a hiss.  It landed perfectly.  Better than perfect: it hit and dislodged both of the remaining clothes pins.  Unfortunately, Brent wasn’t in any frame of mind to appreciate my skillful marksmanship, being somewhat distracted by his own agonies.  His face turned reddish purple and he let out a feral, visceral shriek.  Out of deference for his pain, I allowed him a moment to indulge in these expressions, and stood at a respectful distance until his howling quieted.  Once he was sufficiently calm, I offered him water, holding a cup while he sipped through a straw.  His hands were still bound, you see.  I wasn’t quite ready to let him go yet.

“Is there anything you would like to say, Brent?”

“yes Mistress.  I will say again that I am sorry and I will earnestly try to do better.”

I shook my head.  “I’m afraid that is not specific enough, Brent.  I will need you to be more explicit regarding your intentions.”

“I will be on time, I will pay attention to instructions, and I will be more careful to follow directions and do what you ask.”

“That’s great, Brent.  That is the decision I hoped you would make.”  At this point, I was ready to release him from his restraints.  First, I untied the ropes that bound his ankles, then I unfastened the leather cuffs.  Brent stepped away from the cross.  I motioned for him to kneel on the floor, and I unfastened his collar.

Often I allow a slave in training to relieve himself manually after a session, but as this was a punishment session, I felt it would be inappropriate.  Also I would ordinarily allow a subject to clean off the IcyHot.  Not today.  Today, the IcyHot would remain on his skin, providing a subtle, lingering reminder of our time together, thus allowing the day’s lessons to make a deeper impression.  Time will tell.

 

 

Thursday 02/28/2019: The Main Event

Thursday nights, the evening we host Bondage A Go Go, are my favorite.  It’s the time when we are able to show up for our beloved BDSM community.  Though there are always at least a few curious new attendees, many are regulars from one week to the next.  This is fun for us, especially when they are in the habit of playing.  As we get to know a person, we can better tailor their experience to suit their preferences, and of course that’s always a good thing.

One such person is a young woman we’ll call Daeva.  We see her frequently, and most of the people who join us for the event are familiar with her.  She’s friendly, sociable, and on almost always in the mood to play.  Our event photographer managed to get quite a few pictures of a recent play scene, so I thought you’d enjoy seeing some of them.

53369489_2331524346880250_2577392441057345536_n

As with any scene, we devote the first few minutes to lighter play, also known as a warm up.  Daeva is partial to sensory play for this initial phase.  I might use toys with different textures, such as furry or scratchy.  Occasionally I’ll deliver a lighter impact spanking.  Daeva pretty much gives me license to express my creativity and I take advantage of this.

53289805_330485057597223_7341838463244697600_n

One of my favorites is the **vibrating glove (pictured).  It’s a loose fitting nylon glove with little vibrating pads in the finger tips.  It has two speeds and requires three AA batteries. Everyone loves it.  It’s great for warming up, or for cooling down …. and incidentally it is great for a scalp massage.

Once I had a little fun with Daeva, I turned her over to Master Hawke for a bit of rough treatment.

53435370_533173267174794_3505348669710794752_n

Master Hawke is an expert in manual domination.  He uses a combination of percussive impact and pressure points.  He also isn’t afraid to subject a person to a bit of rough handling.  This is a good way to let a submissive know they are truly taken in hand and at his mercy.

53165082_246835346260576_3801191467372773376_n

An experience with Master Hawke is bound to get your endorphins working.  Endorphins are “feel good” chemicals, such as you might feel after a workout or a night of dancing or a few thrill rides at an amusement park. Getting a spanking (for instance) is just another way to chase that dragon.  It’s a natural high.  People usually feel pretty good after a corporal session.  Energized, mood elevated. Some people report a heightened sense of well being, lasting for days after some rough use.

With an intense corporal session, the goal of course is to hurt, but not to harm.   Hawke is really good at taking someone just to the edge, then maybe a bit farther.  There’s art, science, and skill involved.

After Hawke finished up with Daeva, we took a short break.  I had a shot of tequila and said hi to a few people.  Then I met Daeva back in the play area for an encore.  She was stripped down and dancing in her skivvies by this time, waiting for me to return.

53268245_2061157920627079_6994108109845168128_n.jpg

That is not an opportunity you want to waste.

53057837_332246614077825_4298286493970989056_n

Since she was pretty well  spent from her time with the Master, we kept it fairly light.  Just more sensory play.  Dripping wax and ice, then scraping the cooled wax off her skin with the edge of a blade.  Though this is on the less intense end of the spectrum, it likely felt fairly intense as her body was still riding the wave of the endorphin rush.

53169311_378896892942690_2265217158373965824_n

Though Daeve was used, she was far from spent.  I ordered her across my lap for an OTK spanking.  Just a light one.  I wanted to give her a prolonged cooling down period.  Besides, we had quite an audience of onlookers so why not give them a show.

53390460_511581546036944_7709451156560281600_n

We host Bondage A Go Go every Thursday except for the 3rd Thursday each month.  All play is consensual.  The event begins at 10pm.  There’s no cover for midnight.  Join us for a drink, some dancing, and a good beating.  Or, just watch.  It’s a pretty good show!

 

If you have never been and are curious about what to expect, here are a couple articles I wrote as primers on the event:

https://dommedeplume.wordpress.com/2016/07/17/bondage-a-go-go/

https://dommedeplume.wordpress.com/2017/04/09/bondage-a-go-go-at-exit/

*photos by PJ Weingart

41qoqT8jgeL

**The Fukuoku Five Finger Massage Glove.  It’s pretty easy to find a retailer.  The price seems to range from $60-100, give or take.  There’s a right hand and a left hand version, and it comes in black or hot pink.

at my mercy, at my feet

I’ve been playing with *David for about a year.  He comes to see me every few weeks to be subjected to various indignities.

I remember our first session.  David illustrated the nature of his fantasies in elaborate detail.  He wanted to feel out of control.  He wanted to throw himself at the mercy of a Dominant woman.  He longed to be degraded as I saw fit.  He admitted to loving feet, particularly if they were sweaty.  Mine were because I had been wearing my leather boots all afternoon.  Upon hearing this revelation, he begged for a chance to prove himself worthy to worship my feet.

He described his limits: no insertions, no marks, no blood.  I told him the safe word and ordered him to strip.  I gathered rope, a blindfold, a ball gag, and a pair of panties made of lavender satin and trimmed with lace.  I handed him the latter, instructing him to put them on.

I lit a few candles and put on a CD while David busied himself with the task I had given him.  When he was finished he said “ok, Mistress.  They’re on.”

“What’s on, David?  I don’t appreciate vagueness.  You will need to learn to be more specific.”

“I put the panties on, Mistress.”

“Oh, good,” I answered.  “That’s excellent.  Now you may kneel.”

David obeyed.  I fitted the blindfold over his eyes and fastened a collar around his neck.  I ordered him onto all fours, then added that he should lower his chest to the floor and place his wrists behind him.  I used a piece of rope to bind his wrists behind his back.

“I’m going to gag you in a minute, so if there’s anything you’d like to say this would be the time.”  I showed him the ball gag, which I had wrapped in plastic during my preparations.

Of course he had something to say.  “I have a question.  Why did you make me put these panties on?”

I answered him slowly and succinctly: “I’m in charge of you, right?”

He answered: “yes, Mistress.”

“And you  mentioned that you hope to be allowed to worship my feet, did you not?”

“I did, Mistress.”

“There you go.  I told you to put the panties on because it entertains me to see you wear them.  I suspect that you buy your underwear in a twelve pack, and probably always have.  Now, you’re wearing a pair of bargain bin panties.  Think of it as a short walk on the wild side.  If you hope to worship my feet, you should thank me because those panties are a step in that direction.”

“Thank you, Mistress.”

I told him he was welcome, then I popped the ball of the gag into his mouth.  I put a few keys in his hand and told him to jingle if he needed to get my attention.

Once David was gagged I sat on the floor in front of him and removed my boots.  I rested my foot on the back of his head and slowly lowered my right stocking, taking pains to not snag it.  I left the stocking draped over his head, the toe right by his nose, damp with the sweat of my sole.

His nostrils flared as he recognized the scent.  He imbibed the bouquet in deep gulping inhalations.  Spit seeped from his stretched mouth and dribbled down his chin.  He gurgled and drooled as he drew in my essence in desperate snorts.  I removed my left stocking, noting that it had a run.  Damn.  Oh well.  I guess it was David’s lucky day.  I wadded the stocking into a tight ball and without announcing my plan, I removed the gag from my subject’s mouth and replaced it with the stocking.  I used pallet wrap to hold the gag in place, winding it around his stuffed, half open mouth several times.

David slurped on the stocking, sucking the flavor of my sweat from the sheer nylon material.

“You’re drinking my sweat, David.  No more drooling, now.  Make sure you get it all.” I grasped his hair and tugged, lifting his head.  I edged my toe under the blindfold and lifted it, sliding it up his forehead.  He nudged his face toward the sole of my foot.  I gripped his nose between my first and second toes, cutting off his breath for a few seconds.  I moulded my arch to his forehead.  I rested my heel against his chin and sprawled my long toes across his brow.   I flexed, arched, and pointed my foot just out of his reach.  He flailed toward it in an earnest attempt to feel my sole against his face again.  I’ll say this much: he was motivated.  He heroically struggled forward, crawling on his shoulders.  Now and then I let him reach his target, only to inch backward and withdraw his hard won prize.  I admired his dedication.  He would have crawled around the block for a chance to bury his face in my feet.  In fact he seemed content to merely exert himself with no guaranteed outcome.

I often will allow a scene to reach a plateau so I can observe my subjects in these moments..  It is no small thing to overcome your self consciousness and acquiesce to your desires.  My view is from a different angle.  From where I sit, submission looks like liberation from convention and constraint.  I know the degree of trust and confidence and sheer guts involved.  For me, this comes into sharp focus through a degree of detached identification with my subjects.  That’s what I take away from my sessions: the gift of an entirely different perspective.  This is the vision that guides my hand as a Dominant.

I untied David’s wrists.  Next I used safety shears to cut through the plastic wrap that secured the stocking gag.  I held out a baggie for him to put the spit soaked stocking into, then I said: “Ok, David.  It’s your choice.  You can have my feet in your face and go home with blue balls, or you can jack off.  One or the other.”

He didn’t even need a minute to think about it.  He automatically answered, “I want your feet, Mistress.”

I told him to lay on the floor facing upward, with his head right at the foot of my throne.  Once he was in the prescribed place I rested both of my bare feet on his flushed face.

He still wore the knickers.  His hair was damp with perspiration.  His breath was humid and hot against my soles. I knew this was all he wanted or cared about at that moment.  Nothing else mattered, just as it should be.  I made him lie still under my feet until it was time for him to leave.

He asked if he could keep the stocking.  I certainly didn’t want it back.  I told him he could have it on condition that he wore the panties home.  He agreed to this stipulation and left with blue balls, as was the contract.

 

*name changed

 

 

 

 

it was an accident

“There are no mistakes.  Only happy accidents.” -Bob Ross

 

Once a month, sometimes twice, *Junior comes to visit me.   I have trained him to follow a protocol upon arrival: first, he undresses quickly and silently.  Then he silences his phone and folds his clothing.  Finally he puts on a pair of women’s panties that he carries in his briefcase.  They’re pale pink, with a floral print.  The waistband and leg holes are trimmed with ivory lace.

Junior likes it when I treat him like crap.  I don’t mind obliging him.      Today I was feeling feisty and sadistic and Junior, being somewhat of a bonehead, never fails to inspire my most sadistic tendencies.  In fact before he even arrived, I had my mind made up that today was going to be especially hard for him.  Not that I had anything specific in mind, but I was certain that Junior would hand me a gift wrapped excuse to hand him his ass.

First things first, I made him stand for inspection.  Right away, I could see the reason for the punishment I would mete out: Junior’s balls were squishing out of the leg of his panties.  I smacked them with a crop.  He made a squeaking yelp sound.   “Stuff them in unless you want to lose them,” I told him.  He did as told.

“Do you think I want to see your sloppy balls hanging out of your knickers?” I demanded.  “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“No ma’am, but it was an accident.  I didn’t mean to.”

“An accident?” I smacked his groin with the riding crop.  He moved his hands to protect himself, but I wasn’t having any of that.  I seized his arm and abruptly dragged him to the St. Andrew’s cross.  I fastened the leather cuffs around his wrists.

“You’re gonna get it today, Junior.  You’ve been begging for it for a long time and today I’m going to give it to you.” It wasn’t an empty threat.  I was ready to dig in and ruin his day.

The panties left the lower portions of his buttocks exposed.  Two pasty white hemispheres of butt meat, sparsely populated with a few hairs.  I smacked his left cheek just to watch it jiggle.   Then I pulled his panties down, dragging them down his legs until they rested around his ankles.

Junior has a bad habit of clenching his ass on impact.  This makes it hurt worse.  I have certainly told him this, and I have advised and admonished him to avoid clenching.  He never absorbed these lessons, and now his butt paid the price as it absorbed the impact of a medium sized, solid wooden paddle.

He groaned and braced his upper body against the cross.  Rather than wasting the moment, I swung the paddle again, landing a good one squarely across his butt.  He cried out and arched backward.

“Oh, does it hurt?  Sorry, Junior.  It was an accident.” I used a rope to bind his upper body to the cross, passing it around his waist and anchoring it to lead screws on either side. Then, I used leather straps to secure his thighs to the lower portion of the cross.   He struggled just enough to test his newly imposed restriction.   I was satisfied.  This would do.

Of all the toys I use for discipline, there is a leather strap that I love.  It’s a dense piece of hide, about 14 inches long and nearly two inches wide.  It’s smooth as glass from years of use.  It slices through the air with a low hiss.  It hits the skin with a thick, satisfying slap.  That sound is one of the things I love about it.  It’s a rich, skin on skin thud.

It also leaves beautiful marks.

I grasped Junior’s earlobe and inclined his head to his right side, where I stood with strap in hand.  “See this?” I asked, holding it up for him to see.  He winced, gulped, and nodded.  “I’m gonna use it on your ass in a minute.  You probably won’t like it.  I don’t really care.  Do you understand?”  Junior nodded.

I took a step backward, lined up my aim, and swung the strap forward.  It sailed and landed on Junior’s in a straight line across the middle of his buttocks.  I landed another lash directly below it.  Two perfectly horizontal lines began to redden.  I ran my fingertips over my handiwork.  Junior was biting his lip to keep from making noise.  Screw that.  I wanted to hear him.  That way I know he appreciates my efforts.

Clearly, it was time to cut to the chase.

I attached a collar to Junior’s neck, then untied the ropes, and liberated him from the straps and cuffs.  Clenching the back of his collar, I forced him to the floor in front of the cross.  He lay there sprawled on his stomach.  I kicked his thigh.  “Roll over.  On your back.  Now!”  I punctuated this command with another kick.  Junior scrambled to obey.

Luckily the toy drawers were in easy reach.  I found a box of spring loaded clothespins.  Perfect.

I pried Junior’s thighs apart and put on latex gloves before attaching the clothespins to the skin of his scrotum, one by one.  I took my time, drawing it out, tugging and twisting the clothespins to maximize the torment.  Just a tiny, nearly transparent nip of skin.  That’s all that was needed.  It hurts more that way.  Also it makes it easier to apply more clothespins.  More clothespins = a more painful experience for Junior.

He made so much noise, you’d think I was sawing his leg off.  What a baby.

“I’m so sorry, Junior!  It’s an accident!” I gleefully rubbed it in, enjoying his moans of pain.  They paired well with the contorted grimace.  I used the riding crop to target individual clothespins.  Just the slightest tap with the crop caused him to writhe in agony.  It was an entertaining spectacle, but I was ready to raise the stakes.

“You lie there and keep still.  I need to get something.” I peeled off the gloves and went back to the toy drawer where I found a drip candle, a book of matches, a roll of duck tape and a pair of nipple clamps.  I put these things on the floor between Junior’s splayed thighs.  Then I dragged the heavy wooden spanking bench to where I wanted it, which was about a foot away from Junior’s head.  I again fastened leather cuffs to his wrists.  Then I clipped the cuffs to an eye bolt  near the base of the spanking bench.  Good.  Now his hands were out of the way.

First, the nipple clamps.  I attached these and tightened the adjustment screws.  I didn’t want to draw blood, but I did want to make him suffer, so I tightened them with a few careful adjustments.

Next, I ripped off a few strips of duct tape.  I slapped one of them across his mouth.  Not because it would dampen his screams (well, not much), but because it would hurt when I yanked it off.   Then I taped his cock to his stomach just to get it out of the way.

I stationed myself between Junior’s legs once more.   His face was flushed.  His arms tensed against the restraints.   The steel jaw clamps bit into his nipples.  His stomach rose and fell with his inhalations and exhalations.

I put on another pair of gloves and lit my candle with a match.  The matchbook came from a diner that probably closed twenty years ago.  They probably had a hot meatloaf sandwich on the menu and a waitress named Flo or Vera or who knows.  I wondered if they wore support stockings and called patrons “hun”.  I wondered what they’d think if they knew what I was about to do to Junior.

The clothespins were still in place.  Twelve in all.  I held the candle about twelve inches above them, tilting it slightly so the wax could flow as it melted.

The first drop dripped down the side of a clothespin, so it was practically cool by the time it hit his scrotum.  The next drop was a different story.  I held the candle upright to let a little melted wax accumulate.  It hit his skin and poured over his balls in a tiny clear rivulet, hardening almost instantly.  Junior screamed.  He turned almost purple.  His body twisted in a rigid, jerking motion.  His arms tightened and veins bulged out from his neck.  His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched.  I enjoyed watching this.  Meanwhile, the wax was melting and accumulating, so I let it flow again.  It rolled over his stretched skin, matting his pubic hair as it solidified.  Junior thrashed and struggled but he was unable to avoid the wax.  “Oh my, Junior!  I hope you’re ok!  I’m having an accident!”  I giggled as I poured the melted wax.  His back and ass lifted off the floor.  Sweat rolled off his forehead.  He made a muffled, whiny grunting sound from behind the duct tape.  I yanked the clothespins off one at a time.  Junior rolled from side to side, bucking and twisting and screaming.  This made it a bit more difficult to apply the wax accurately, but I managed about a 90% success rate, which is pretty impressive, considering.  Finally I snuffed the candle out on his stomach.  He yelped a little bit.  “Do you whine about everything?   Do you have any pride or self respect at all?”  I removed the clamps from his nipples.  The pain set in about 5 seconds later.  Junior straightened like a plank and managed to stifle his cries somewhat.  It sounded like a growl.  In one swift motion, I tore the duct tape from his mouth, revealing his bared, clenched teeth and red raw skin.  Finally I liberated him from the wrist restraints.  I figured he might want to be the one to remove the duct tape from his cock and the wax from his balls.  I was correct on both counts.  It was Junior’s wish to perform these delicate procedures in the comfort and privacy of his own home.  I wonder how he managed.

I hope it hurt.

Silence

“It’s very important in life to know when to shut up.  You should not be afraid of silence.”  ~Alex Trebek

 

*Dylan talks too much.  He likes to run his mouth during our play sessions, filling up the quiet spaces with nervous chit chat about sports teams he follows, concerts he plans to attend, and other mundane topics.  It breaks my reverie and interferes with my enjoyment of our play time.  I also think he could get more out of our sessions if he knew when to be quiet but the problem is that he doesn’t know when to be quiet.  Idle chatter is his default.

My solution was to impose a gag rule on him.  No talking without permission, excepting his safe word if he needs it.

Of course he objected to this innovation.  I gave him two minutes to voice his displeasure.  He used it to full advantage.

“Why the gag?  If you don’t want me to talk I can be quiet.”

“No you can’t,” I replied.  “Last time we played I asked you to be quiet twice and each time you barely paused before starting up again.”

“Seriously?  I did?  Wow, I didn’t know that.” Dylan looked genuinely puzzled, as though he were trying to recall these details.  Then: “but seriously, I can be quiet.  I like to talk but I really don’t have to.  Especially if it bothers you.  I can be annoying.  Whatever I have to say can wait.  Except if I have to use my safe word, or the rest room.  I’ve never had to use the rest room during one of our sessions because I always go before we start.  But I imagine you’d let me use it if I asked.  It would be too distracting to have to wait, especially if we still had a lot of time left.  Do you know the other night I went to see a movie and-”

I didn’t wait to hear about Dylan’s cinematic adventure.  I’d already heard enough.  Without another moments hesitation I slapped a piece of duct tape across his mouth and instructed him to get onto the bondage table.  I put a ring of keys in his hand and explained the new rules as I applied the cuffs his ankles and wrists.  “You can jingle or drop the keys in lieu of saying your safe word.  But be forewarned.  That duct tape is gonna hurt when it comes off.  So whatever you have to say, you should think twice about whether it’s worth it.”

Dylan nodded.

I put on some classical violin music.  My supplies were already arranged close at hand: clothespins, some clothesline weight rope, a tongue depressor, a small rubber whip, latex gloves, duct tape, a candle, lighter, and bowl of ice cubes.  There were no further preparations to be made.  I was free to enjoy my subject in peace, and this fact gave me a newfound sense of liberty and empowerment.  My first act in my newly empowered state was to attach clothes pins to Dylan’s nipples.  The wood gripped his skin with a firm pinch.  I tugged it slightly to test it’s stability (and I’ll be honest: also to inflict a bit of torture on my subject).  Dylan stirred and issued a muted groan of protest.  I ignored this, as it didn’t require a response.

I continued my petty torments.  After donning gloves, I used the lightweight rope to bind Dylan’s cock to the tongue depressor, much like a splint.  Dylan watched with a curious expression as I completed this task.  Beads of sweat gathered on his furrowed forehead.  I knew he was more anxious about being under rule of silence than about anything I’d done up to that point.

Why waste that energy?  I decided to give him a few reasons to squirm.  I lit the candle and set it aside in a holder, so some wax could accumulate.  Dylan glanced fearfully at the candle.  I decided to blindfold him.  I explained: “you’ll be a lot less anxious if you stay in the here and now.  You don’t need to watch and worry about what I’m going to do.  Just let your body respond.”  I stood still at the head of the bondage bed and watched him breathe for a minute, until he was noticeably calmer.  Soon his breath was steady and regular and his face showed no sign of stress.  Good, because I was about to fuck that up for him.

I mounted the bondage bed and revisited the improvised cock splint.  It was still securely bound.   I seized the candle and poised it about eighteen inches above his splinted digit, tilted to allow the wax to flow.    It poured over his skin and ran downward toward his body, hardening in his pubic hair.  He groaned and stiffened, fists clenched and feet pointed.   Meanwhile, the wax was melting and accumulating, so I lowered it to about a foot above my target and let it flow again.  It rolled over the bondage cord, landing on his bare skin.  Dylan groaned with more force and fervor but lay still and tense.   I smiled as I continued to pour the melted wax, this time letting it hit the tip (just the tip) of his member.  His back arched off the mat.   He made a whiny little grunting sound from behind the duct tape, almost like a dog who wants to go out to pee.   While he continued to register the effect of the wax, I twisted one of the clothespins earlier applied to his nipples.  Then I decidedly yanked it off.  Only one for now.  The beautiful thing about nipple clamps or clothespins is that they hurt more when you take them off than they do when you apply them.  Why not increase the fun by letting him suffer twice?   Obviously, I had to drip some wax on his recently liberated nipple.  It just seemed like the right thing to do.  Dylan obviously agreed, as his face was red, his jaw clenched, and the tendons in his neck strained.    I set the candle aside and picked up the little rubber whip, aiming right for the wax coated nipple.  Yes.  Spot on.  A few flakes of wax chipped off and flew as the whip landed home.  My subject howled from behind the tape, so I knew he appreciated it.  Again, I aimed and lashed the whip, breaking more wax each time, and leaving a constellation of little pinpoint whip marks where the wax broke off.  Not the most efficient method of wax removal, but definitely fun for me.

Next I turned my attention to the still clamped nipple.  That clothespin was still there, just daring me to inflict more pain.  I gave it a smack.  Dylan whined a little.  I tugged it, causing his pinched nipple to distend.  His whimpering became more insistent, and his already strained neck cords bulged visibly.  I twisted the clothespin and he made a sound like a balloon with a slow leak.  Every motion I made was cautious and deliberate because I didn’t want to remove the clothespin prematurely by accident.  I had plans for that clothespin.  My plans involved the candle, which was still lit.  A considerable amount of wax had melted.  This gave me the idea to apply the wax to his nipple and the clothespin simultaneously.  I did this by carefully maneuvering the angle of the drip, while manipulating the clothespin to one side and then the next.  Dylan was whining a lot during this process but I tuned him out, focusing instead on my task, making sure to capture a few nearby chest hairs.  The hairs were the point of this exercise.  Just to add to the fun, I was hoping to remove wax and hair at the same time I removed the clothespin.   I kept dripping the wax until I had a good thick layer of it.  Then I held an ice cube to the newly dripped wax, just to help it harden.  Dylan shivered a little as the ice melted but he didn’t make any noise.  I tapped the surface of the wax to test it.  It was solid.  I carefully gripped the clothespin near the bottom and pulled it off in one motion, taking the wax with it in one solid piece.  I was pleased to note that my plan worked, as the hairs came off too.  Then I yanked off the duct tape over his mouth.  It made a little ripping sound as it came off.  Dylan moaned, strained, and struggled against nothing but the pain itself.  I let him have this moment.  I know when to be quiet.

After he settled down a bit, I untied his cock.  Most of the wax came off with the bondage cord, which I discarded along with the tongue depressor and gloves.  A little of the wax remained in his pubic hair but I decided to let Dylan sort that on his own time.   Maybe that will teach him to trim.  Either way, it’s sort of a bonus lesson for him.

 

*name changed

 

 

the rough use of subject #2

“A picture is worth a thousand words.” ~proverb of unknown origin

 

We’re lucky to have a dedicated photographer for Bondage A Go Go.  With the participant’s permission, he captures scenes for posterity.  From time to time, I like to look back on the pictures and reminisce fondly on moments we’ve been privileged to be a part of.  Looking at the photos takes me right back to the moment.  It’s easy for me because I was there, and I remember the intensity and drama of each scene; many of them unfold like a play in one act.  Still, I feel like a lot of the narrative is missing for those viewers who weren’t present for the action.  So I will present the story of subject #2 along with  the photographic highlights.

 

bagg24I refer to him as subject #2 because he was our second subject of the night.  He told us he likes it rough. He likes having his hair pulled, and being knocked around.  I’ve played with him before.  I remember his preferences, he enjoys a really intense play scene with lots of rough contact and physical force.  I decided to take matters in hand immediately by forcing him to his knees to crawl to the play area.

 

bagg26My lady friends and I took our turns subjecting him to rough use.  Miss Serenity began a warm up with the leather paddle.  Subject #2 stayed on his knees as ordered, and submitted to the rhythmic slap of the thick, smooth leather.

 

bagg27After Miss Serenity had a little fun with our subject, Miss Janna had her turn.  Her tool of choice was a miniature truncheon made of rubber.  I won’t even try to describe how much this thing stings.  It’s not just sting, either.  The thing is heavier than it looks and so it’s a combination of sting and weight.  It is one of the most intense corporal toys in the arsenal.  Nevertheless, subject #2 took it without complaint.

 

bagg29After Serenity and Janna took their turns, we raised him to his feet and clipped the leather cuffs to the fence to secure him.  I wanted a piece of the action.

 

bagg28I don’t get many chances to use the braided leather cat o’ nine tails.  It’s a heavy, abrasive whip and it is usually best saved for a true masochist, which aptly describes subject #2.  Being the smartass that I sometimes am, I couldn’t resist smiling for a picture before getting my pound of flesh.  By the way…if you examine this picture closely, you will see evidence of Janna’s application of the rubber truncheon.

After we had our fun kicking him around, we handed him over to Master Hawke to finish the job.

The next photo isn’t the greatest quality, but it’s going to be one of my eternal favorites.

baggwowNote our expressions, especially mine.  I am a skilled, seasoned sadist.   It takes a lot to make me look like that.

Here’s the inspiration behind our expressions:

bagg31Master Hawke gave subject #2 the BUSINESS.  His hands flew.  He pummeled and pulled flesh.  He struck repeatedly and rhythmically.  Subject #2 took it all and begged for more.  He gave a token struggle, just to get Hawke to bring it harder.  A few minutes into the action, Master Hawke took off his jacket and the crowd erupted in spontaneous applause and cheers.  Everyone knew what was coming: Hawke was about to go Full Metal Jacket on subject #2.   It was one of those rare, fine climactic moments when the spectators are watching, riveted and at attention.  It was the most epic, elegant beat down I’ve witnessed in many moons.

 

bagg38

We ended the scene by making subject #2 lie on the floor so I could use his head for a foot rest while my companions enjoyed one final round of sadistic fun with him.  Miss Janna dripped hot wax all over the punished flesh of his back, and Miss Serenity used a steel knife to scrape the wax off.

bagg68

Bondage A Go Go is at Exit on Thursday nights.  If you haven’t attended, you should.  Here is a link to an introductory article I wrote about the event:

https://dommedeplume.wordpress.com/2016/07/17/bondage-a-go-go/

Photos by Chuy Hernandez

 

*bondage and freedom: letter to a servant

“The harder you work, the harder it is to surrender.” ~Vince Lombardi

 

You asked me what I was thinking the other night while you were bound.  I didn’t have an immediate reply, because it’s not an easy off the cuff answer.  The topic of bondage invites me to wax philosophical.  I’ve been thinking about it, and I would like to share this with you.

For me it begins as I am preparing for our session.  I know you want to be bound.  You specifically asked for restrictive, containment bondage that allowed you little to no freedom of movement.  I prepared a variety of items:  immobilizing leather wraps, cuffs, and straps, rope to anchor you in place, leather hood, and steel chains for their weight.  I take my time in applying these, watching the layers and locks add up.  At that point I am thinking about your safety first and foremost, but also what will make you feel physically contained.  I cinch the straps, buckle the buckles, knot the ropes.  This is the most fun part for me personally, but also where a lot of the groundwork for the whole session is laid.  I want to get it right so I don’t have to cause distraction by adding this or that, or correcting mistakes.  I am deliberate about my work.

Once you’re safely bound, I clasp my hand over the leather hood to obstruct the breathing holes, this being our customary signal that you may begin.  It’s satisfying to watch you struggle.  That’s my role at that point: to witness your struggle, your helplessness.  To be present.  To be vigilant.  To stand at the ready in case you decide you need to use your safe word.

During these moments, I envy you.  Bound by leather and anchored by rope and confined by steel and strap, you are inviolable.  You are completely safe, struggling against something of no consequence.  There is an end in sight.  This too will pass, though you are invited to imagine otherwise.   You are not in any jeopardy.   You are free to labor against the chains and straps and leather and rope.  You are at liberty to feel whatever you need to feel…and this is a good time to let yourself react, because I’m not there to judge you; I’m there to keep you safe.  None of this matters.

It isn’t always safe to give voice to protest; the real world deals out real consequences for dissent.  We don’t immediately perceive the effect our silence has on our own mental health, relationships, or work.  Subjugation must be endured in silence unless we are in a position that allows us to shrug at the potential aftermath.  In so many ways, so many symbolic whips held over us, so many chains binding us.

My whips and chains are real and symbolic at once.  Certainly I could devise a “punishment” for your outward rebellion but that sanction would be little more than a distracting token, and would deprive you of the value of independent compliance.  I discern and respect your need to struggle, even in vain, against these bonds you voluntarily chose.

I watch as you acquiesce to your newly prescribed perimeters.  In spite of the initial resistance, you give up easily.  Your muscles relax.  Your breathing slows.  Your jaw loosens, your brow unfurrows, these being replaced with an expression of serenity.   You are at ease and I daresay comforted by your perimeters.  Acceptance within your bounds gives you paradoxical freedom.  Your body is contained and immobilized; your mind is someplace else.  Your flesh is under my command but your mind, your limitless consciousness, is aloft like a kite.  I am holding the string.  Our harmonic efforts are the wind keeping you aloft.

My chains mean nothing unless you are fighting against them.   Surrender equals freedom.

Acceptance is not always passive.  Sometimes it’s an active state of reminding ourselves to be still in whatever state we are bound.  It often requires a great deal of will power, struggling against our nature to accept that which enslave us.  For some, it requires greater strength to accept chains than it would to break free.  Literal physical bondage is a good tool for learning how to let go.  Think of all that could imply, because it’s pretty awesome.

 

*shared by mutual agreement

 

it was an accident

“There are no mistakes, only happy accidents.” ~Bob Ross

 

Once a month, sometimes twice, *Junior comes to visit me.   I have trained him to follow a protocol upon arrival: first, he undresses quickly and silently.  Then he silences his phone and folds his clothing.  Finally he puts on a pair of women’s panties that he carries in his briefcase.  They’re pale pink, with a floral print.  The waistband and leg holes are trimmed with ivory lace.

Junior is a masochist.  He likes it when I treat him like crap.  I don’t mind obliging him.      Today I was feeling feisty and sadistic and Junior, being somewhat of a bonehead, never fails to inspire my most sadistic tendencies.  In fact before he even arrived, I had my mind made up that today was going to be especially hard for him.  Not that I had anything specific in mind, but I was certain that Junior would hand me a gift wrapped excuse to hand him his ass.

First things first, I made him stand for inspection.  Right away, I could see the reason for the punishment I would mete out: Junior’s balls were squishing out of the leg of his panties.  I smacked them with a crop.  He made a squeaking yelp sound.   “Stuff them in unless you want to lose them,” I warned him.  He did as told.

“Do you think I want to see your sloppy balls hanging out of your knickers?” I demanded.  “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“No ma’am, but it was an accident.  I didn’t mean to.”

“An accident?” I smacked his groin with the riding crop.  He moved his hands to protect himself, but I wasn’t having any of that.  I seized his arm and abruptly dragged him to the St. Andrew’s cross.  I fastened the leather cuffs around his wrists.

“You’re gonna get it today, Junior.  You’ve been begging for it for a long time and today I’m going to give it to you.” It wasn’t an empty threat.  I was ready to dig in and ruin his day.

The panties left the lower portions of his buttocks exposed.  Two pasty white hemispheres of butt meat, sparsely populated with a few hairs.  I smacked his left cheek just to watch it jiggle.   Then I pulled his panties down, dragging them down his legs until they rested around his ankles.

Junior has a bad habit of clenching his ass on impact.  This makes it hurt worse.  I have certainly told him this, and I have advised and admonished him to avoid clenching.  He never absorbed these lessons, and now his butt paid the price as it absorbed the impact of a medium sized, solid wooden paddle.

He groaned and braced his upper body against the cross.  Rather than wasting the moment, I swung the paddle again, landing a good one squarely across his butt.  He cried out and arched backward.

“Oh, does it hurt?  Sorry, Junior.  It was an accident.” I used a rope to bind his upper body to the cross, passing it around his waist and anchoring it to lead screws on either side. Then, I used leather straps to secure his thighs to the lower portion of the cross.   He struggled just enough to test his newly imposed restriction.   I was satisfied.  This would do.

Of all the toys I use for discipline, there is a leather strap that I love.  It’s a dense piece of hide, about 14 inches long and nearly two inches wide.  It’s smooth as glass from years of use.  It slices through the air with a low hiss.  It hits the skin with a thick, satisfying slap.  That sound is one of the things I love about it.  It’s a rich, skin on skin thud.

It also leaves beautiful marks.

I grasped Junior’s earlobe and inclined his head to his right side, where I stood with strap in hand.  “See this?” I asked, holding it up for him to see.  He winced, gulped, and nodded.  “I’m gonna use it on your ass in a minute.  You probably won’t like it.  I don’t really care.  Do you understand?”  Junior nodded.

I took a step backward, lined up my aim, and swung the strap forward.  It sailed and landed on Junior’s in a straight line across the middle of his buttocks.  I landed another lash directly below it.  Two perfectly horizontal lines began to redden.  I ran my fingertips over my handiwork.  Junior was biting his lip to keep from making noise.  Screw that.  I wanted to hear him.  That way I know he appreciates my efforts.

Clearly, it was time to cut to the chase.

I attached a collar to Junior’s neck, then untied the ropes, and liberated him from the straps and cuffs.  Clenching the back of his collar, I forced him to the floor in front of the cross.  He lay there sprawled on his stomach.  I kicked his thigh.  “Roll over.  On your back.  Now!”  I punctuated this command with another kick.  Junior scrambled to obey.

Luckily the toy drawers were in easy reach.  I found a box of spring loaded clothespins.  Perfect.

I pried Junior’s thighs apart and put on latex gloves before attaching the clothespins to the skin of his scrotum, one by one.  I took my time, drawing it out, tugging and twisting the clothespins to maximize the torment.  Just a tiny, nearly transparent nip of skin.  That’s all that was needed.  It hurts more that way.  Also it makes it easier to apply more clothespins.  More clothespins = a more painful experience for Junior.

He made so much noise, you’d think I was sawing his leg off.  What a baby.

“I’m so sorry, Junior!  It’s an accident!” I gleefully rubbed it in, enjoying his moans of pain.  They paired well with the contorted grimace.  I used the riding crop to target individual clothespins.  Just the slightest tap with the crop caused him to writhe in agony.  It was an entertaining spectacle, but I was ready to raise the stakes.

“You lie there and keep still.  I need to get something.” I peeled off the gloves and went back to the toy drawer where I found a drip candle, a book of matches, a roll of duck tape and a pair of nipple clamps.  I put these things on the floor between Junior’s splayed thighs.  Then I dragged the heavy wooden spanking bench to where I wanted it, which was about a foot away from Junior’s head.  I again fastened leather cuffs to his wrists.  Then I clipped the cuffs to an eyebolt  near the base of the spanking bench.  Good.  Now his hands were out of the way.

First, the nipple clamps.  I attached these and tightened the adjustment screws.  I didn’t want to draw blood, but I did want to make him suffer, so I only made a few careful adjustments.

Next, I ripped off a few strips of duct tape.  I slapped one of them across his mouth.  Not because it would dampen his screams (well, not much), but because it would hurt when I yanked it off.   Then I taped his cock to his stomach just to get it out of the way.

I stationed myself between Junior’s legs once more.   His face was flushed.  His arms tensed against the restraints.   The steel jaw clamps bit into his nipples.  His stomach rose and fell with his inhalations and exhalations.

I put on another pair of gloves and lit my candle with a match.  The matchbook came from a diner that probably closed twenty years ago.  They probably had a hot meatloaf sandwich on the menu and a waitress named Flo or Vera or who knows.  I wondered if they wore support stockings and called patrons “hun”.  I wondered what they’d think if they knew what I was about to do to Junior.

The clothespins were still in place.  Ten in all.  I held the candle about twelve inches above them, tilting it slightly so the wax could flow as it melted.

The first drop dripped down the side of a clothespin, so it was practically cool by the time it hit his scrotum.  The next drop was a different story.  I held the candle upright to let a little melted wax accumulate.  It hit his skin and poured over his balls in a tiny clear rivulet, hardening almost instantly.  Junior screamed.  He turned almost purple.  His body twisted in a rigid, jerking motion.  His arms tightened and veins bulged out from his neck.  His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched.  I enjoyed watching this.  Meanwhile, the wax was melting and accumulating, so I let it flow again.  It rolled over his stretched skin, matting his pubic hair as it solidified.  Junior thrashed and struggled but he was unable to avoid the wax.  “Oh my, Junior!  I hope you’re ok!  I’m having an accident!”  I giggled as I poured the melted wax.  His back and ass lifted off the floor.  Sweat rolled off his forehead.  He made a muffled, whiny grunting sound from behind the duct tape.  I yanked the clothespins off one at a time.  Junior rolled from side to side, bucking and twisting and screaming.  This made it a bit more difficult to apply the wax accurately, but I managed about a 90% success rate, which is pretty impressive, considering.  Finally I snuffed the candle out on his stomach.  He yelped a little bit.  “Do you whine about everything?   Do you have any pride or self respect at all?”  I removed the clamps from his nipples.  The pain set in about 5 seconds later.  Junior straightened like a plank and managed to stifle his cries somewhat.  It sounded like a growl.  In one swift motion, I tore the duct tape from his mouth, revealing his bared, clenched teeth and red raw skin.  Finally I liberated him from the wrist restraints.  I figured he might want to be the one to remove the duct tape from his cock and the wax from his balls.  I was correct on both counts.  It was Junior’s wish to perform these delicate procedures in the comfort and privacy of his own home.  I wonder how he managed.

I hope it hurt.

The Master’s Hands

“I sing the body electric” ~Walt Whitman

If you have been in the habit of attending Bondage A Go Go in recent weeks, you have probably noticed we have a new companion working with us.  When you meet him in our company, you may address him as Master Hawke.
alan1

We asked Master Hawke to join us because he is a consummate Dominant, a highly skilled sadist, and a gentleman.  Those who approach him respectfully will be welcomed and put at their ease.  Your gender doesn’t matter.  Neither does your orientation.  This isn’t about sex or attraction, it’s about submission.  It’s about learning where that edge is.  It’s about pushing the threshold.  If you want to do that, if you want to feel alive in every part of your body, if you want to be tested to your core, Master Hawke will take you in hand.

bagg278

Master Hawke is a Dominant of considerable skill.  His particular area of expertise is martial arts, and he often uses elements of this discipline as he works.

I watch him work.  Master Hawke’s approach to physical domination includes a combination of leverage, physical force, percussive impact, and pressure point manipulation.  I’ve never seen anything quite like it.  As you watch, you will observe that Master Hawke is completely focused on his subject, on their responses and reactions to his methods.  He is well aware of the capabilities and the vulnerabilities of the human body and he excels at taking a person to that razor edge, where there is nothing for the submissive to do but to submit and surrender and ride the tidal wave of endorphins.  You can withstand some rough handling.  Your body is a wonderful machine and the Master knows how to push your buttons.  Aside from being remarkably skilled, his form is impeccable.  He moves with the elegance of a trained dancer, and his hands never miss their mark.

bagg2726

Rest well in the knowledge that there are forces greater than yourself, among them Master Hawke.  If you want to find the perimeters of your endurance, he will accompany you and show you the sights.  You are in the hands of a Master.

bagg273

*Master Hawke is also available for private sessions in a discreetly located, fully equipped BDSM dungeon.  Submit inquiries to continuum411@gmail.com.  ATTN: Master Hawke