Burned. She made an uncomfortable mewling noise, looking at her body in the large hotel bathroom mirror. Everywhere was covered in sore streaky red. Her breasts were still their proper alabaster and rose color, as was her buttocks, but her shoulders were sun seared, ugly pink, as were patches on her torso and legs. She looked, in her judgement, like she was having some sort of allergic reaction. And she knew what would come next, peeling, then tan marks, light brown on milk white.
The door rattled and swung open, and she poked her head out, still patting her singed flesh with a cool, damp wash cloth.
“Okay baby, the concierge found a pharmacy that’s open at this hour…” He clutched a plastic sack, crinkled up in his hand. He, of course was perfectly unblemished. She’d taken extra special scare to slather him with sun screen, after all. “I’m really, really sorry. I got aloe and…”
“Kneel down, right now.”
“…Mistress?” He said from somewhere on the floor. His voice was tiny. He hadn’t stopped looking penitent, since they first discovered the start of her burn and she identified the culprit.
“I’m too angry to punish you right now. Not only is this really sore, how is it going to look at the party this weekend?”
“I don’t know, Mistress…”
“Of all the lazy, inconsiderate things. You had the privilege of touching me and rubbing my skin and…” She took a deep breath. “Nope, too pissed and stingy to talk about this still. No Mistress for you tonight, just hurt-y fiancee. Get the aloe and more ice from the hall, and tomorrow I’ll decide what I’m going to do.”
He made a little whimper. He always liked it better when she punished him than when she was actually upset.
The next morning, as soon as store opened, he was back at the pharmacy. His collar was around his neck, both reassuring that Mistress was okay, but that punishment was now imminent. He scampered first to the seasonal section and picked up a few things: a floppy cheap wide brimmed hat, a can of sunscreen with a high SPF sunscreen, then to the stationary aisle. Scissors, glue, tape, then rushed back to the hotel.
Arts and crafts followed, her carefully trimming, snipping, sticking and then spraying, before the pair took breakfast smoothies at the hotel pool. Other holiday makers noticed, on the little strip of luxurious beach, a couple, laid out with a deck chair and umbrella. The woman wore a loose caftan and stayed mainly in the shade, her eyes masked by dark glasses, but her mouth in a small but content smile, while the man rushed about, doting, rubbing her feet, bringing her drinks and sometimes just kneeling nearby her legs, looking up at her adoringly. From time to time she would beckon him over and whisper something into his ear, then he would lay out in the sunniest part of the beach, tanning.
That night, the hotel noted they used a lot of ice, but if the other guests heard muffled whimpers, grown ups having romantic fun was a matter of normal. It wasn’t until the small, private party that weekend, at their friend’s ocean side condo, that the other guests saw the full effect of her punishment.
WORTHLESS SLUT, emblazoned in white on his back, standing against in stark relief against a caramel tan. On his front, FUCK BITCH 4 MISS.
If the Mistress didn’t pick her usual revealing party attire, no comment was made by the other guests, but her naked fiance was used well, and photographed at every angle. Quite a few people went home with happy vacation souvenirs.
Last Saturday I helped hold a celebration for my Gentleman Nemesis’s birthday. It was a simple, casual six person dinner-and-company-affair, with two other femdom couples. That’s right guys, a real life femdom party- but maybe not completely like the kinds you see in porn. Also, we had tacos. :9
The founding kernel for this event was organizing a proper, mean birthday spanking for Wildcard. The first misconception to throw out, if you’re trying to imagine this, is something ultra high protocol in a classy mansion or high end loft. Although Wildcard’s residence is plenty homey and tasteful, the reality of secret BDSM is how well we blend in. The subs did not arrive on leashes, and the only fetish-y thing was that I decided to wear my corset, which is a steel bone and satin number in severe black, but this was as much because I don’t have many occasions to have my waist cranked down by 3.5 inches. Everyone else, on the other hand, came in comfortable, casual clothing, the sort of stuff where you won’t feel silly or awkward. None of the female doms or male subs have a thing for cross dressing, so there were no submissive sissy maids simpering over tea. Sorry, I know, trés disappointing for a certain hopeful number of you.
The guest list was some familiar faces: LadyCobra, Vosko, Ballbuster and Mr. Sub, which meant two other couples with solid dynamics. Once again, I really have to say they emphasizes how you can all be technically on the same page but have radically different ways to do things. It’s also possibly one of the best parts of playing with other people because you get such a wide range of dynamics and outcomes.
Powerhouse couple Ballbuster and Mr. Sub have had years to build their dynamic together. They’re real proof that some of the meanest, hardest play is built on a strong foundation of love and mutual support. Their style is also something that developed together, with definite switch tendencies in Mr. Sub that mean that when he’s not otherwise occupied in the sub role he’s eager to give input. With two minds put to the task, a lot of predicaments and pure wanton sadism pops up, and he’s as eager to share it with any and everyone else as his dom. On the flip side, with that sort of regular play partner, in scene Ballbuster runs things hard and fast, with intense cruelty and no warm ups- then again Mr. Sub takes a lot to get him down, and his idea of after care if bouncing around all pumped up, while the dom flops, exhausted in a corner. If you need to imagine them: Think huge toys, heavy pain and hard humiliation. With a sub like Mr. Sub it’s quite clear where Ballbuster learned her confidence- she doesn’t seem to worry about pulling out all the stops and the effect is spectacular. Also she went as a pink pixie fairy last halloween- take that how you will.
Meanwhile, LadyCobra and Vosko’s dynamic is a lot more characterized by LadyCobra’s attentive preciseness to detail. Vosko is a lot more vulnerable in play, and while he’s got a great sense of humour and strong public persona- in kink he’s got a softness there (and incidentally is the baby of our little group of libertines), which is not to say he is a wimp, but rather that there’s much more of an impression of fragility there while he’s being given fierce looking bruises. Paradoxically, by appearance, he’s also the sort of massive Scotsman that gave the ancient Romans second thoughts, and would not be out of place among a line up of metal fans. He’s well matched by LadyCobra who is, as I described before, incredibly technically precise and proper, with impeccable scene control. If anyone’s going to make “traditional” kink look good it’s her. She’s also very, very good at bringing just the right level of pain or strictness the moment needs, and making her approach to a submissive or bottom fit with just what the sub can take, all without making her subtle adjustments obvious.
Organizing an event is mostly complicated by the shyness that’s inherent in trying to get other people up in your sexuality without creeping them out or getting creeped out. Everyone’s needs and desires are intensely personal, so I’m always careful about presuming too much. Suffice to say, these things never happen with any sort of script or expectations beyond good taste and common sense. We agreed to a round robin, each of the guys in the sub role would get beat, birthday style, with each dom, and the implement of her choice, one whack for each year.
Wildcard was perfectly happy to share his day, because he’s one of the least selfish people I know. (Well, perhaps he’s nursing secret grumbles, but I don’t think he’d ever dream of vocalizing them if he did.) He also provided the homemade pork tacos, which sounds dirty, but actually was more that he’s an amazing cook- food which the guest inhaled, and I made a white cake with chocolate ganache and a caramel middle. I mention this because having fun is key, and if you want to organize your own party, keep in mind that you will have more fun if want to spend time with the people you play with outside of being kinky with, and at them. But, back to the beating and the humiliation!
I had Wildcard strip in front of us, piece by piece, folding as he went. He blushed really cutely as I made him remove every single item, except for his socks. Wildcard is ultra-slim in a trim bodied sort of way, and by affect, naturally very reserved and non-demonstrative about his feelings. He generally puts a lot of effort into his appearance- you won’t see him with his hair unseen to, or his beard untrimmed and even his casual clothing is well fitted and flattering. There’s a certain sort of pleasure I get just from mussing that perfect control in how he can present himself.
And it seems like my “take it off and fold it!” approach encouraged the others, because they soon followed suit, and Vosko was all vulnerable and stripped under much the same script, and then in his turn, Mr. Sub shucked clothes with the casualness that belays his long experience. There are not, to be frank, many chances to objectify men properly. I enjoyed it.
The best parts, for me, are always the reactions. Watching the way they take the hits, in this case posed just so, kneeling in an arm chair, with ass raised. My friends had brought their toys: paddles, bamboo canes a rubber baton and other entertaining means to smack flesh into submission. Wildcard had, for the second half of the evening, lost the right to speak unless spoken to or unless given permission. The effort was a practical one- with so many interesting people it was hard for him not to get distracted and interject into what people were saying. Charming conversationalist or not, he has an extremely hard time getting into anything approaching a submissive head state and his play collar was undergoing repairs.
I’m going to be honest and say that getting him in role or close to in role calls upon pretty much every shred of latent telepathic talent I might have in regards to reading subs (or in his case switches)- if his current job fails the guy should take up poker as a career. It’s also somewhat compounded by the sexual etiquette. I knew that he was incredibly excited to get a birthday spanking from multiple people because he told me as much, but the flirting that tends to be involved in BDSM encourages br’er rabbiting, ie other words pretending to be emphatically not into the act that you’re very much craving so the dom can feel like a meany with power over you, which means cultivating an air of reluctance. Since there’s an extra onus on dudes to be reserved in their sexual approach to avoid coming across as pushy, this can lead to kinksters behaving as shyly as a bunch of debutants.
Letting other women beat Wildcard is interesting for me, because it lets me watch how he responds. I gave him a warm up first, a bare skin, bare handed spanking to help him get ready for what was going to happen and passed him off, to go first in the chair. His fate involved his own belt laid hard against his skin, swung by Ballbuster’s hand. Then each man had his own turn following him.
The fact that Vosko was the youngest (and least spanked) did not, in any way, mean people went easy on him. Although he took less hits, it’s Wildcard who has the gentlest limits. Mr Sub, of course, needed a vicious thrashing to even make him do more than go “that’s niiiice” and go to sleep. All three men ended up with deep purple bruises, eagerly photographed and watched over as they faded over the past week.
I liked the fact that Wildcard was gently shaking a little bit, after his first third of his use. I liked that he melted into quiet vulnerability, rolling into a curled up naked ball, and that he would occasionally whisper to me. I liked that LadyCobra caught the vibe I was trying to build and worked well with it, and that Ballbuster, while she didn’t seem as into it, was patient enough to play along.
In any case, the guests seemed happy enough I can be sure there will be a repeat. Hurrah!
She couldn’t help it, her face cracked into a big happy grin, mouth twitching until the smile opened her eyes wide and girlish giggles escaped her mouth.
“No…” he put his forehead against the edge of the bed, resting it there in exasperation, as his arms were bound behind his back.
“Alright, alright, let me try again.” She took a deep breath an composed herself, opened her mouth and the merriment bubbled up. “Shit!”
He huffed a sigh. “Ma’am, you seem to have a problem saying it.”
“It’s just…” She looked down at his muscular body. “It’s silly.”
“You didn’t have any problem with this in chat, this morning.”
“Alright, you say it,” she folded her arms and he caught the tiny, seeking edge in her voice. These moods never meant anything other than a torrent of lust fueled abuse, raising his dashed hopes of where the evening was going.
“I’m a little bitch.” He felt a small sting of embarrassment, coming out in a small voice.
“See, not so easy, is it?” Her smile was a smirk now. “Tell me again and look me in the eye.”
“I’m a little bitch.” The embarrassment was warming, and stirred his cock.
“That wasn’t all. Tell me more, slut.”
“I’m a sissy, pathetic bitch who deserves to be spat on and… degraded and…”
“I’m a little bitch! I deserve to be spat on and degraded and fucked!”
“I’m a little bitch and I want you to show me just how much that’s true. I want you to… to use me, and hurt me and piss on me.” His cock was now pointing a steady right angle from his body, and he saw she was doing the hungry-writhe dance of horniness. It was like a puzzle piece clicking into place, when they fell, together, into a connection that motivated her to crouch down and grab his throat.
“Pathetic little bitch,” she hissed, inches from his face. “You should be lucky if I reward you with that. Get over the bed!”
As he belly flopped over the edge of the double bed, grinding himself against the stacked mattress and box spring, she turned and stooped. There was a jingle and swoosh as she found his discarded pants and took the belt out of the loops.
“Unh!” He debated what she’d do if he tried to roll out of the way, but the belt cracked down across his bare thighs, finishing his horny noises with a high pitched yelp.
She gave him a few more welting stripes before she paused again. “Tell me what you are!”
“I’m a pathetic little bitch and…auugh!” The belt cracked down extra hard.
“Say it like you mean it. Make be believe you’re the nothing that you say you are.”
“I’m a pathetic little bitch. I want to be used and treated just how I deserve. I want to be shown that I’m a nasty, piss drinking…” The admission came out of him. “A nasty, piss drinking, disgusting little bitch.”
She grabbed him then and flipped him over, so they were nose to nose. She looked at him with loving malice for one long moment before rearing back and a wad of spittle landed on his cheek. “Drink my piss, hm? That’s a new one.”
“That’s right, ma’am. I want to drink down your piss.” He whimpered when she didn’t say anything else.
Her face unreadable, she crossed her arms and looked at the shiny place where her spit had landed. His eyes were large and vulnerable, hopeful yet fearing his mouth had carried him too far. Humiliated.
Then the smile returned. “That’s right, you little bitch,” she said the words that had, before, been too silly for her to get out. “You’re a thing. You’re nothing but a hole to fuck, a body to torture and a disgusting, submissive pervert who begs for more no matter what you do.”
“And you’re going to be nothing but my piss lapping little slut too.”
His vision returned after some blinking, helped by the filtered nature of the light from the big stained glass panels along the hall. There was thick carpets and heavy bunches of flowers in blue vases, a citrus heavy scent saturating the air, another fancy home with a wife taking care of the decoration, though not as quietly opulant as the Harrington country house.
The trip had been an hour by car, with the hood on, sitting on the floor of the car with Anette’s hand on the top of his head. She’d had him dressed in new clothes, fashionable but a bit more foppish than he’d have personally chosen, and locked the hood in place, pulling tight straps on the back of his head so it pressed against his face and made it hard to move his eyes of blink.