Archives d’auteur

Day 4: Any early experiences that, in retrospect, hinted at your kinks?

In retrospect? Oh yes. The general way I approached sexuality from the very beginning, and my intimate relationships, for example, or what I seeked (and fortunately found) in my partners. But also, much earlier experiences. Me in the school yard playing with the other kids a game in which members of a team were “captured” and held by the fence, then freed by their teammates, with all those images going on in my imagination, images of being chained to the fence, for instance. At approximately the same age, me watching pirate or peplum movies in which people were captured, tied up, whipped… More specifically, Planet of the Apes with human being caged and enslaved. And me playing Barbie, in my own personal way, alone in my room, because I already had this sense that the way I was playing was special: Barbies held prisoners, tied down with leatherette bracelets, chained with necklaces, whipped with tiny little whips I made with elastic bands… And, later, me playing the same game in my head, for I was too old for Barbies, self-censoring those images because they were not proper (how could I, a feminist, nurture all those images of enslaved women?), then finally going back to them as bedtime stories. Early short stories, also, and especially one involving power exchange and leather gloves.

Find the complete set of questions here.

Day 3: How did you discover you were kinky?

I was an early kinkster in my head, but a late bloomer in my life. I finally acknowledged and recognized the fact that I was kinky in a moment in my life when I was questioning my sexuality. Events had occurred in my life (elements of a relationship) that had made me think that I was not completely living everything that made me sexual, if I may say. I realised there was a cleavage between, on the one hand, what I was experiencing as fulfilling and how I behaved when I was being sexual, and what, on the other hand, my partner was expecting from a non-kinky point of view. I also realised I was censoring myself in order not to be… what? outing myself as kinky? too intense for my partners? I never thought about it that way, but, thinking back, I guess that is what it was. So I began questioning myself about what aroused me, just as, years before, I had questioned myself (and found an easy answer) about my sexual orientation. And just as, back then, when I had engaged in the process of acknowledging I was a lesbian, or a dyke, or queer (not everything came at the same time) and began with theory instead of practice, when I decided to explore what triggered my sexual response, I began by a virtual exploration. Back then, I had read books, tons of books. Now that I was a writer, I started to write an erotic story. Well, what I thought would be an erotic short story, and that finally became a full-length bdsm novel about a D/s relationship (a novel written in French which can be found here).

Find the complete set of questions here.

Day 2: List your kinks.

If I were to list all my kinks, the list would be very long. And unfinished, as I discover new ones, or variations on existing ones, all the time. (By the way, those who say that living your fantasies can be risky as it gradually deprives you from fantasies are miserably wrong: living your fantasies only leads to the creation of new, more complex fantasies.)

So, a summary of my kinks… Some are more on a psychological level, others are more physical, but they all fuck with my brain as they all play with power. For a long time, I thought that pain was not my kink, but that experiencing pain in my body helped me be more aware of my state of submission. I still think that is true, but I have to admit that I like pain, that I crave and need pain, sometimes, somehow. When it is happening, it keeps me focused; when it has happened, I feel powerful; when it does not happen for a while, I become grumpy then numb. On the receiving end, my kinks go to heavy play. I may be not the heaviest of players (but it is not a contest, is it?), but I like types of play that feel heavy, edgy. I like to feel like a slave, a pet, a piece of meat and also to look up for a split second and see the satisfaction in her eyes, or to hear it in her voice. To be chained, to be made to eat on the floor or from my dominant’s hand… Needles through my skin, in the most intimate places… To be ordered to do humiliating things, to be humiliated in front of other people, to be made to show how much that arouses me… The heat of hot wax going through me… To be pressed down by a boot, and yes, the sole can be on my face… Having my holes filled… Intense thrusting, wherever feels appropriate… Thorough beatings with canes, whips, bare hands, until I collapse… I like to cry in a scene, and I like it when my tears do not mean the end of a scene. I like to be stripped naked of my clothes, of my pride, of my self-control.

On the pitching end, I enjoy the same thing, I guess, except that I have not experienced everything above. I like I like to inflict pain with a cane or crop or a handful of needles. I like to be mean. I like to look them in the eyes and smile. I like to punch them in the chest, in the back, I like to kick them. I like to pin them down and to invade their privacy. And I need them to show me they like it for otherwise it is pointless.

Find the complete set of questions here.

30 Days of Kink

Here is a meme that I found on a few blogs. I am not planning to post an answer every day, but I eventually will go through all the questions.

Day 1: Dom, sub, switch?  What parts of BDSM interest you?  Give us an interesting in-depth definition of what that means to you. Basically define your kinky self for us.

Dom, sub, switch? The list is too short, and so are those words. I need the words “bottom” and “top” to fully define myself. And a few more. Although, I would say “submissive” is at the core of what I am, BDSM wise. However (again), submissive is not what I universally am.

SUBMISSIVE: I can only see myself being submissive in a context where I am being it to someone, or being someone’s. “A” submissive, to me, does not make much sense, as it is a dynamic, and a dynamic I engage into with someone specific, someone special. I can then choose to be submissive to them, or to be their submissive. It is a matter of level. That is as submissive as I would get, which does not mean that I do not then crave to be completely submissive. In this regard, “submissive”, to me, means “she who is surrendering everything to a special someone” (which I have been doing for over a year now, to a, indeed, very special someone). That is not an end, but an on-going, never-ending process. That “everything” is not “bulk-surrendered”, but is given/taken gradually, bits by bits, and over and over again, for the benefit of the one who dominates me (I like to believe that my “benefit” is collateral). That sounds pretty serious, doesn’t it? It is, but that is also exciting, exulting and very, very arousing to be aware and reminded that you have put and are putting yourself in someone else’s hands and that there is no going back within that relationship. That moment of realisation is what I crave.

BOTTOM: Bottoming is an option. I may not submit to everybody (and, really, I submit to only one), but bottoming, sometimes, does the trick for me. It is not a matter of degree or intensity, with submitting implying a greater dedication than bottoming, but a matter of quality: one can submit more or less, bottom more or less, but the two experiences, to me, are distinct if compatible. When I bottom to someone, I am in a different state of mind than when I submit. Yes, it is also a matter of putting oneself between someone elses’s hands, but bottoming, to me, is more on the physical side. However, I cannot help it: I always need to know that the person I bottom to is pleased with what is happening and that it is not only “all about me”.

TOP: Yes, I do top. It is something I discovered after I lived some of my bottoming/submission fantasies first. I do not think I could have topped at the very beginning, with all the cravings I had inside. Those had to be fulfilled before I could look around. Nor do I think I could only top only all the time, as something would be missing from my life, but, at the same time, the first minute of the first time I topped, I realised how gratifying (read: exciting, arousing…) that could be (before, I did not get what tops got from doing what they did). What I like in topping is the intense concentration, the extreme focus on the here and now that provides me. It almost feels like painting, except that the brush is a flogger or cane, the canvas is flesh, and the colour is pain or, at least, sensation.

MASOCHIST: Most likely.

SADIST: Probably.

SWITCH: Maybe.

Etc. Etc. Etc.

Find the complete set of questions here.

At the event Spring Fling (Malmenage du printemps), I will be facilitating a workshop called « To Weep, To Sigh, Perchance to Beam: The Role of Pain in BDSM Scenes » (see details on their website). Here is the description:

To Weep, To Sigh, Perchance To Beam
The Role of Pain in BDSM Scenes

Pain is a natural sensory or emotional response to unpleasant or potentially harmful situations. As animals, we are wired to avoid pain at all costs in order to stay alive and healthy. However, some of us human beings seek pain or, at least, pursue activities where pain is part of the game–activities such as those included in BDSM but also ranging from extreme sports to self-mutilation. There are those who simply accept pain as necessary evil, as a means to access fulfilling states. For some, pain is part of a regular play diet; for others, pain is the occasional name of the game. This workshop is for those who want to reflect about pain in all its expressions, within play or within a relationship. We will discuss the mechanisms of pain, from the initial response to the unbearable, with a strong emphasis on the multiple ways, means and motivations to processing pain within oneself or someone else—or not. This seminar is appropriate for all levels, from novice to extreme players.

(Version française.)

Dans le cadre de l’événement Malmenage du printemps (Spring Fling), je vais donner un atelier intitulé «Souffrir, fléchir, s’envoler peut-être: Le rôle de la douleur dans les scènes BDSM» (voir la description sur le site de l’événement). En voici la description:

Souffrir, fléchir, s’envoler peut-être
Le rôle de la douleur dans les scènes BDSM

La douleur est une réponse naturelle des sens et des émotions à une situation déplaisante ou potentiellement dommageable. En tant qu’animaux, nous sommes programmés pour éviter la douleur à tout prix afin de demeurer en vie et en santé. Cependant, certaines, certains d’entre nous êtres humains recherchons la douleur ou, du moins, nous livrons a des activités où la douleur fait partie des règles du jeu – des pratiques telles que celles qui sont associées au BDSM, mais aussi d’autres activités allant des sports extrêmes à l’automutilation. Il arrive qu’on accepte la douleur comme un mal nécessaire, comme un moyen d’accéder à un état d’esprit gratifiant. Pour les unes, les uns, la douleur fait partie d’un mode de jeu équilibré; pour d’autres, elle est une pratique occasionnelle. Cet atelier est destiné à celles et ceux qui souhaitent s’interroger sur la douleur et ses multiples expressions, au sein du jeu ou comme élément d’une relation. Nous discuterons des mécanismes de la douleur, depuis la première réaction jusqu’à l’insoutenable, en mettant l’accent sur les multiples façons, moyens et raisons de gérer la douleur à l’intérieur de soi ou chez l’autre – ou non. Ce séminaire s’adresse à des participantes et participants de divers niveaux, des plus novices aux plus extrêmes.

(English version.)

Je viens de mettre en ligne une suite de mon roman bdsm Un emploi d’été.

Vous trouverez ici le chapitre 2: « Un bel objet ».

Bonne lecture!

Three years in a row I had been at that kinky event, and three years in a row I had contemplated it. I had seen it being carries around the room, depending on the needs of the other participants, I had seen other alluring queer women come in and out of it, I had seen people have sex on it or around it, be spanked, paddled and caned over it, sucking the whole spectrum of cocks through its bars. I had even watched a scene in which a woman had her long thick hair tied to it. Oh, and that extended scene where another woman has been peacefully lying in it almost all night long under the auspice of her sadistically benevolent top. I had been around the room myself, flogged on the table, whipped on the cross, fucked on a rug, and, a couple of times, I had been seen crawling on the floor, on the other end or not of a leather leash, but I had never been put in the cage.

I had looked at it closely and I knew its every details. It was not your regular dog cage, the foldable kind that you can conceal when you have guests coming. This was a dungeon, and the cage felt real, stable, impossible to fold and hide, resolute, definite, extremely appealing. Really, more than a cage, it was a small cell, with strong vertical bars on all sides including the door, and more bars on the top. The particularly attentive maker had even thought of putting a padded purple lining so the little pet or bad girl or slave locked in it could enjoy some comfort. I liked its cold bars and the metallic clunk of its door when it was being shut closed. I craved to be behind… within those bars, on the other side of that heavy door.

So, when my owner asked me what I was fantasising for the play party, I did not miss a beat and immediately replied: “The cage.” The other details did not matter much to me as long as they revolved around the cage. If I remember well, she just smiled and nodded.

So here I was, waiting by the cage. I had run to it the minute it had become available, because in that crowded space I did not want to miss my turn. Now I was waiting for them to come back. Them both, I mean, my owner and my girlfriend who, in this particular world I live in, are not the same woman. They would be two to cage me tonight, and I would watch two sets of feet walking around the cage when lying in it. Provided I did, because I was aware that I had no power over what would happen next. I could just hope that my plea had been heard.

I had expected my two torturers to beat around the bush, so to speak, that is, to leave me unbeaten around the cage for a while. But I guess they both knew how much I craved it, or maybe they craved to see me in it, for the minute they were back, standing next to the cage, with me standing in front of them in my shiny fetish outfit, they told me… to get undress. Or my owner told me and my girlfriend nodded in agreement. To take off my fishnet shirt, to remove my leather chest harness, to let go of the black kilt, to lower my black panties and pass them over my boots. Those I was to keep. And then, without further ado beside putting a bit in my mouth and buckling it behind my head, oh, and putting a collar around my neck, they ordered me on my knees and told me to crawl into the cage.

The cage was small but could accommodate my whole body. Standing on my hands and knees, I had my head touching one end when the door closed on my feet. But suddenly, it was like the whole world was obliterated, muffled by the bars of the cage. I felt as comfortable as I my moves were restricted, and as I was aware that they could, at any moment, slide their arms and feet and toys through the bars and that there would be nothing I could do to escape their caresses or their strokes. I was theirs, in the space of that cage more than anywhere else. Their drooling captive little thing to use, to beat, to fondle, and to neglect if they so felt inclined. And all along the way I trusted them to use, beat, fondle and even leave me waiting me just the way I needed it which is always my owner’s ways. I could only moan and make indistinct sounds because of the bit that was gagging me.

Everything, from the cage, felt blurred, but I have flashes of vivid memories. I remember a flogger, through the bars of the cage, that I received on my back, on my ass, both soft and harsh strokes, both leather caresses and bites that made me moan and wiggle and scream and want to move away from the pain—but of course there was no way out and I knew I had to send my body back towards the lashes. I recall a foot in the cage, my owner’s, under my lips, that I kissed and licked and would have kissed and licked forever, my nostrils close to the leathery smell of her boot, my drooling mouth making it wet. I have various memories of hands on me with no possibility for me to evade then—had I wished to. And between the fondling and the whipping and the beating and the more tender caresses, I could feel their kissing and fondling each other outside of the cage, and I had thoughts and images of the two of them fucking over my head, coming in my face as I was lying helpless in the cage.

Eventually, I was told to get out of the cage. When they spread my blanket on the padded lining of the cage, I knew what might be coming. Why would they bother to protect the furniture if that was not against the messy slut they were toying with… Or maybe their juices would drip all over me in the cage? My brain stopped spinning again when they sent me back in the cage on my back.

Being in that new position made me feel even more vulnerable. I was lying on the floor, in the bottom of a cage, with my owner and my girlfriend looking down on me, and they could have walked on me and I could not have escaped. She, my owner, walked on me. She slid a foot between two bars and pressed her boot on my face and on my chest, making my head light under the pain. She stuck a cock in my mouth after taking the bit off. I could watch the two of them kiss and being closed to each other as I lied on the floor. Soon they were sitting on the cage, my girlfriend was pressing her body against my owner’s—in that special world where my girlfriend can top my owner. Then flogging her, flogging me too with each stroke. The leashes were brushing against my bare pussy, sending waves of desires through my body, but all I could do was remain there, helplessly and desperately moving my pelvis back and forth to sooth away the desire and, in fact, only nurturing it.

And then, when I thought I would die of unfulfilled cravings, my owner directed her attention to my cunt. She did not insert her fingers or her hands, she did not use a dildo. No, from outside of the cage, she slid a condom on a stick, her holly pagan walking stick, and shoved the covered end in my cunt. Up to the hilt. And I welcomed it, opening my legs even wider, with my feet on the bars to offer full access to my wet pussy that was and is always hers.

And then commenced the long process of playing with my cunt with the stick, filling it wide and deep, and teasing it with its wooden volume. And all that time, they were kissing and fondling each other, only minding my exposed body to fuck me deeper and deeper, almost matter-of-factly. Also hitting the stick, which sent waves into my cunt, arousing it even more. And suddenly, while I had forgotten almost completely about the crowded space since I had entered the cage, I was suddenly aware of the people around, of all those leatherdykes who could witness what was happening to me, what turned me on. I was there, on my back, with my cunt in the air, being fucked like a—what? A slut? A whore? A dirty bitch that is craving to be filled with anything that comes handy. With the stick inserted between the bars of the cage, which my owner was thrusting in and out of my cunt, bringing me to the verge of coming. And I lied there, whimpering, begging softly to be allowed to come, overwhelmed by the sensations in the midst of my body, contained by the cage. And when I finally heard my owner granting me permission, I came hard with my juice oozing from the tiny interstice between the wood of the stick and the walls of my cunt, and oozing even more when the stick came out of my hole before diving back.

I came for a long time, in pulsing, constant gushes, making the blanket wet and pungent with my fluids. Even when I was ordered out of the cage, still on the blanket, I came holding my owner’s leg with mines, my pussy rubbing against her shin, feeling more than ever like her bitch in heat, shameless. Only because I am also a reasonable girl and knew she had to leave did I stop coming.

I was left in good hands, in the arms of my sweet girlfriend, who held in her hand the collar that, at some point, I did not remember when, had been removed from my neck. On the couch I sat with her, for a long time, my thoughts still a bit foggy, still sighting the now empty cage from the corner of my eyes, wondering when I would have a chance to go back between its bars.

Je m’ennuyais de ma Maîtresse et je le lui avais dit. En fait, non, je ne le lui avais pas dit. Mon corps et ses réactions le lui avaient montré. Ce n’est pas que je m’ennuyais de sa présence… enfin oui, c’était le cas, mais là n’était pas la question. Je m’ennuyais de son pouvoir, de sa force, de son autorité, de son talent de me maintenir à ses pieds, de la douleur qu’elle n’hésitait pas à me donner. Un matin tandis qu’elle s’habillait pour partir, elle m’avait souffleté avec ses gants de cuir. Deux claques brèves sur chaque joue. Et je m’étais mise à pleurer. Non pas parce que cela m’avait fait mal, mais parce que cela avait réveillé la douleur en moi, celle de n’y être pas soumise. Le soir, nous en avions parlé et elle m’avait fait descendre ma culotte pour m’administrer une fessée à main nue, de ses longues mains nues qui savent si bien claquer contre ma peau et la rougir jusqu’à ce qu’elle en brûle. J’étais repartie heureuse d’avoir retrouvé ma Maîtresse.

Nous ne nous sommes pas revues avant le samedi suivant. Il y avait une petite soirée organisée dans une autre ville, chez une amie, et tout le monde s’en promettait de belles dans cette atmosphère intime.

Au milieu de la soirée, ma Maîtresse m’a ordonné d’aller chercher les sacs contenant ses jouets. Par jouets, elle voulait bien sûr dire tous ces beaux objets de cuir, de bois et de métal destinés à frapper, cingler, fouetter, fesser, et tous ces autres conçus pour immobiliser ou pénétrer. Ensuite, elle m’a dit de choisir trois objets de sa collection que je souhaitais qu’elle utilise sur moi. Rusée Maîtresse : elle sait combien j’ai du mal à choisir, et encore plus à demander. Lorsqu’on me demande de choisir, je veux généralement tout à la fois. Et j’ai du mal à demander parce que, malgré les discussions que j’ai eues avec ma Maîtresse qui m’ont fait comprendre que demander n’est pas décider, j’ai toujours l’impression, quelque part en moi, que c’est déjà avoir trop de contrôle sur la suite des choses. J’ai compris que la scène avait débuté.

La scène a commencé tout à fait lorsque ma Maîtresse m’a dit de me déshabiller devant elle de manière sensuelle, au centre de la pièce, au milieu de toutes ces autres invitées qui soit étaient engagées dans une scène, soit observaient tranquillement. Heureusement, il y avait de la musique, et j’ai pu m’engager dans mon petit numéro de strip-tease comme dans une chorégraphie. Et puis elle était là devant moi, qui m’observait, assise bien carrée sur sa chaise, les jambes légèrement écartée, un sourire amusé sur les lèvres, et bientôt plus rien n’a existé qu’elle que j’étais là pour divertir. Je l’ai divertie en retirant, tout en me frottant contre elle, mon soutien-gorge à jolis petits clous de métal, mon serre-taille de cuir que j’ai délacé puis lentement glissé le long de mon corps, puis mon kilt noir lacé qui est allé choir avec le reste. Elle m’a dit de garder ma culotte et mes hautes bottes. Celles-ci me faisaient sentir paradoxalement plus nue, et je crois qu’elle le savait.

Elle m’a dit de me placer contre le mur et elle m’y a plaquée davantage. « Tu te rappelles la dernière fessée que tu as reçue? » m’a-t-elle demandé. « Eh bien auprès de ce qui t’attend ce soir, ce n’était qu’un réchauffement. » J’ai frémi de désir et un peu de cette peur qui chez moi s’apparente au plaisir.

Le premier instrument que j’avais choisi était un lourd martinet qu’en anglais on nomme flogger. De larges et nombreuses lanières de cuir le composent, et lorsqu’il vous tombedessus, il le fait avec un bruit mat qui résonne dans tout votre corps. Le flogger de ma Maîtresse, ce soir-là, est retombé souvent sur moi. Sur mon dos. Sur mes épaules. Sur mes fesses. Sur mes cuisses. Encore et encore. Il ne me faisait pas vraiment mal, mais il me pressait contre me mur et, à chaque coup, me faisait symboliquement retomber plus bas devant ma Maîtresse.

Je n’avais pas le droit de crier, seulement de gémir. Après tout, l’hôtesse de la soirée ne voulait pas alarmer ses voisins. Bientôt, je gémissais en continu, tous mes sens réveillés. Je n’osais pas me retourner, mais à un certain moment, j’ai eu l’impression que ma Maîtresse avait changé de martinet. Ou alors, elle me frappait plus fort ou autrement, parce que les lanières s’étaient mises à pincer ma peau un peu.

Je n’ai su que ma Maîtresse avait troqué son martinet pour un fouet que lorsque j’ai entendu le claquement à mon oreille. Pas sur ma peau au début, mais tout près, pour que je le perçoive, le goûte, l’anticipe, et aussi pour tester la distance. Le fouet a continué de claquer mais s’est approché de ma peau, et j’ai senti ses coups comme de petites brûlures couvrant ma peau, pas douloureuses au début, mais qui, dans leur accumulation, réveillent toute la surface de mon corps et me rendent folle. À petits élans habiles, ma maîtresse a parcouru de petits jets enflammés mon dos et mes fesses, refaisant parfois résonner son fouet, sans m’effleurer, tout près de mon oreille. Et je ne pouvais que rester là, contre le mur, mon épiderme sillonné de petits traits électriques. Et quand elle s’interrompait pour passer sa main sur mon corps, c’était mieux et pire tout à la fois, cela mettait tous mes sens en éveil et j’avais juste envie de l’accueillir en moi, oui, sous ma peau.

Je savais que le troisième instrument que j’avais choisi était une canne bien fine et bien solide. Aussi n’aurais-je pas dû sursauter lorsqu’elle m’a cinglé le dos. Pendant un bref moment, je me suis dit que j’avais, décidément, sélectionné trois instruments générant des sensations bien différentes, et puis je n’ai plus eu le loisir de me dire quoi que ce soit, entièrement habitée par les coups qui s’abattaient sur moi. Je ressentais chacun d’entre eux en double : lorsque la canne me frappait et, quelques secondes plus tard, lorsque la douleur se diffusait. Ma Maîtresse me touchait partout où cela lui était possible : le dos, les bras, les fesses, les cuisses. Je ne sais pas à quel moment j’ai oublié que je ne devais pas crier.

Ma Maîtresse m’a fait mettre à quatre pattes. J’ai brièvement pensé que la correction était terminée et qu’elle me demanderait d’embrasser ses bottes, ce que j’aurais fait avec gratitude, mais c’était pour avoir un accès différent à mes fesses. Ou peut-être pour éloigner mes cris du mur mitoyen, je ne sais trop. Ce que je sais, c’est qu’elle n’en avait pas fini avec moi. Les coups pleuvaient sur mes fesses tendues par la position. Moi, je faisais mon possible pour rester bien droite, pour accueillir les coups, mais c’était comme si mon corps voulait les fuir malgré moi. Alors chaque fois que mon corps faisait mine de s’éloigner, je me remettais en place bien sagement. Et puis j’ai senti mon corps descendre vers le sol et les coups n’ont pas cessé. J’étais en larmes, mais ma Maîtresse ne se laissait pas arrêter pour si peu. Je l’ai suppliée : « S’il vous-plaît, Maîtresse. » « S’il vous plaît quoi, ma chérie? » Et j’ai su que je ne voulais pas l’implorer d’arrêter, seulement qu’elle m’aide à avoir la force de prendre d’elle tout ce qu’elle voulait me donner. « S’il vous plaît, aidez-moi, Maîtresse. » Elle s’est assise sur moi pour me garder en place et a recommencé à m’assener des coups de canne, et même lorsque mon corps s’est tordu pour éviter les coups, elle a continué à me frapper.

Je suis restée sur le sol, pantelante, sanglotante. Elle s’est étendue sur moi de tout son long, de tout son poids. Je la désirais en moi. « La prochaine fois », a-t-elle dit, « je vais trouver un moyen de t’immobiliser pour que tu prennes plus de coups. » J’ai soupiré et je pense que j’ai souri. Je savais très bien que, malgré la douleur récente, malgré mes larmes, malgré mon combat contre les coups, je désirais qu’elle aille au-delà de mes résistances, et qu’elle y reste, aussi longtemps qu’elle le souhaitait.

I was called and dragged upstairs. I did not have my say and just followed them, the cute young dyke, the tall soft butch and the femme fatale, all three of them united under the same dark intention. I was led to the luxurious Victorian room, the one I had admired when we had visited the house earlier that evening, one of the so many inspiring rooms in that house that looked like my most wicked dreams. I was brought there and just left standing, abandoned waiting as they prepared for what they had coming for me, as, one scary utensil at a time, they set up the table for the bacchanal they had in mind with me as the main dish. One of them gave me a sweet and hungry kiss, looking at me like a piece of meat ready to be tenderized. I was undressed by the femme fatale and other hands, my cute little dress was taken off me, and so was my petticoat and bra. I remained in the middle of the room, half naked, thinking that the open-bottom girdle I had selected just to feel coquine that evening maybe was not such a good idea now that I was wearing only with striped stockings and patent leather boots.

I was feeling like the indecently undressed woman in Monet’s Déjeuner sur l’herbe with three alluring dykes playing the gentlemen’s parts. We were not in a dining room or at a picnic, though, but in a flower-patterned bedroom with gracious furniture all around, and yet I was not pushed on the bed to be fucked, but made to stand with my arms up in the air. I had contemplated those hooks earlier and, as I always do when I see that kind of hardware, I had wondered what it would feel like to be hanging from them, and now my wrists were being cuffed and my hands were raised above my head and chained to them. And I stayed there, not hanging, really, but not exactly free, all stretched up with nowhere to go or to hide, with no way to protect myself. Vulnerable. And the image of a piece of meat popped up in my mind again.

They looked at each other, they nodded at each other, they kissed each other, the three of them partners in a crime, guests at a feast in which I would be the bleeding flesh. All the implements that had been displayed on the bed could be used at any moment, but they began with their bare hands. Soon, they were toying with me, brushing my skin with their proprietary hands, pinching my arms as if they were testing my resistance, nagging my sides with the tip of their fingers. They probed me as if I had been an innate object and yet a sentient one, for they had a satisfied look on their face when my body responded, when they heard quiet moans in my throat. I was kissed again, and now that I was bound, the kiss felt possessive and definite, almost like a stamp on my mouth—and my destiny was sealed. And so were my lips between which a bite was inserted, before being securely buckled behind my head.

A skinny flogger was used on my flesh and I winced as its stingy leashes pinched my skin. The slim lengths of leather began their journey on my back, burning my epidermis like tiny tongues of fire, but soon they had been all around: on my bottom, where they bit that tender part between the cheeks and the legs, on the back and front of my thighs where they almost felt like ice on my warm skin, and on my breasts, that they hatched in red, then between my legs, where they sliced into my pussy.

The six hands were back for the next course, more vicious. They replaced the leashes on my back and bottom, leaving larger red sensations on my skin and beyond. They were everywhere, searching for sensitive spots, invading. Some of them even made their way to my mouth, parting my lips, sensing my teeth beyond the rubber of the gag. Fingers were pinching me all over, but especially in that tender space under the arm and from the armpits down. And they were not only pinching, all those thirty fingers, but digging in the flesh, penetrating me deep and making me squeal, then generating other sensations and drawing me deeper in that state of physical acceptance that I seek.

A weightier flogger hit my skin. It followed the path that had been traced by the smaller and landed heavily on my upper back, pushing me down toward the ground, my arms pulling on the cuffs. With each blow I felt more deeply penetrated by the leather and I heard myself moan although I think I had been from the first minute I had been brought up here. And as I was being flogged from behind, one of my torturers came in front of me, preventing me from being pushed further, but also biting and pinching the tender flesh of my arms, of my breasts, or maybe biting it too. The flogger moved to my ass and kept on falling heavily on my flesh.

It is hard to recall all the implements that were used on me, and in which order, as I was hanging loosely from the ceiling, but I remember stings and thuds and probes and punches, and kisses that turned into bites and caressing hands that turned into tight fingers squeezing my flesh. I also remember other people being around, some of them kissing and moaning and fucking and screaming, but a lot of them just watching my surrender between the three bodies that were handling me. One of my torturers came to me and whispered in my ear: “Have you noticed the mirror? Have you seen what you look like.” And I could see myself just as I was seen: a helpless, consenting prey with her skin reddened and already studded with a few darker spots.

And then came the stick. I had spotted it among the other instruments, then avoided thinking about it. I knew that stick as it had bitten into my skin more than once before. I knew it and craved it and feared it because, in the past, it had meant a more profound surrender. Not the superficial consent of the mind, the one that I grant in my fantasy and when I feel definite power over me. Not the one of the body that I gradually give as I am being painted in pain and pleasure combined. No, the one that I do not dare call of the soul, but yet that plunges me back in my deepest, ancient self. The one that makes my body melt and my head lighten.

The stick hit my back, and I screamed. It hit my ass and the back of my thigh and I yelled again. It fell heavily on the front of my upper legs, once, twice, and my screams were guttural cries, and with my eyes I begged my torturers to stop then not to stop. My hands were freed and I was made to slide along the body of a grinning femme fatale until I was on my knees, then lower, on all fours. The bite was taken off my mouth, but I was not left free for long. I was sat on, and the stick fell on my ass again. And now, I could not even walk a few steps away. I was pinned there, on the floor, submitted to the cruel piece of raw wood that seemed resolute to dive through my core submission, down to my marrow.

I was in pain. The deepest pain I had experienced that evening. The pinching and stinging and punching had been all but hors-d’oeuvres as compared to the suffering drawn by the stick for the benefit of my torturers. I now screamed animal screams, trying to walk away from the pain, failing because two strong legs were mercilessly holding me, and somehow grateful that I could not escape, that I was made to experience the pain to its very end, to their end and not mine. I remained there, my arms and knees grounded in the carpet, the pain resonating through my whole body, until my only resort was to collapse, both in tears and to the floor. I found myself weeping under the last blows on my now lying still body.

I still had to kiss their feet, one by one, each of them, carefully, gratefully. And as I was licking the tip of the last boot, I felt something liquid falling on my back. They were pouring water all over me, but it could as well have been piss, as they had made me theirs.