I’m on the floor in Flint’s living room with my ankles and wrists bound, pseudo hog-tied. Flint circles me slowly: he’s wearing a sharp grey suit and looks incredible. I’m not, however, allowed to keep my eyes on him.
I’ve swept the room at his request. I’ve stripped at his request. I’m looking down at the floor at his request. He sits on the sofa, detailing how this is going to go. He is authoritative. The linoleum is cool against my bare skin and my toes are starting to tingle: whether from arousal or the awkward position I’m in – I don’t know.
His cock is in my mouth at his request.
In his bedroom, our arsenal of toys is laid out on the bed. As well as the collar, crop and vibrator, we now also have a flogger, makeshift door restraints, nipple clamps and a tracing wheel with a row of jagged little teeth.
Because I’ve been good so far, I’m allowed to suck his dick, very briefly. His cock is firm, but not fully erect and it annoys me that he has so much control. I want to disobey him, to refuse to stop and to turn the tables, but I have to combat my brattish tendencies for just now.
I face away from him as he places my wrists into the door restraints and slips an eye mask over my face so I can’t see a thing. He tells me to let him know if it starts to hurt. I silently vow not to complain. Even when I’m supposed to give myself over to him entirely, I need to feel as though I have some power. That’s something to work on in the future, but it’s what keeps me sane in the moment.
‘You look hot as fuck.’
I feel it: exposed, raw and slutty through no fault of my own. Having my arms above my head means my torso is elongated, and I raise myself onto my tiptoes to show him that I know I look good: slim and long-legged if only in this light and in this moment.
Since I’m facing away from him and am made blind by the eye mask, I have no idea what he’s going to do. My body is electric and I flinch every time I feel him move behind me.
He starts with his hands, gently, but soon amps up to quick, hard whips with the crop. What’s interesting to me is that everything is deliberate. Everything is symmetrical. He spanks my right ass cheek, then he spanks my left ass cheek. He whips my right thigh, then he whips my left thigh. He tracks the sharp tracing wheel down the right side of my body, then he tracks it down the left side. This rhythmic intentionality makes me understand subspace – the trance-like state a sub can sometimes fall into during a session. Flint’s actions flow.
My arms start to hurt from the restraints, but I keep it to myself and shift on my tiptoes to alleviate some of the strain. Flint either senses this, or he’s done with this part of the evening, because he unshackles me. I’m still blindfolded and throbbing almost everywhere. It’s exhilarating.
Wearing metal clamps on your nipples is sore enough, without them being pulled down by gravity as you’re bent over the bed. The sudden clash of pain for pleasure and pain that isn’t fun comes screaming to the fore. As Flint brushes the flogger’s leather strands across my lower back, I shudder with desire and wince in discomfort. I’m here to get hurt, but – perhaps naively – I didn’t realise there’d be different types of pain. It’s taking me out of the experience, so I talk for the first time in what feels like hours to say: ‘Orange’.
He immediately stops, and I explain the clamps are too tight. He takes them off, which is potentially more painful still. It feels like a vice. I have to take a beat, breathe deeply and centre myself. After a few seconds, I say: ‘Green.’
The sharp spanks, harsh whips and aching flogs, I can enjoy without thinking too much about it, but what makes me hottest is the tracing wheel. Its spiked circle digs into my exposed flesh like a tattoo gun, and it draws moans of aching delight from me. Flint draws it down my spine, as I stretch out to prolong its journey, because the closer it gets to where my waist nips in, the more my clit throbs.
I have a tattoo on my collarbone that I got on a whim at a convention. As the artist buzzed his needle to and fro, I was so turned on, I thought I would cum right there on the table. That’s how I feel now. Each mini jag tightens and tenses my nerves, centring all sensation between my legs.
Flint skims it over the small of my back, which he knows is one of my biggest erogenous zones. Instead of pulling away, as I tend to when feeling any kind of pleasure, I lean into it and my back arches and I want him to press harder until I don’t know where the pain ends and I begin.
He flips me over and drags it across my collarbones, digging deeper and I know it’s going to leave a mark. I don’t bat him away.
Afterwards, I am allowed to suck his cock again, briefly. A bookend to the session. Then he removes the collar and I am alone in his dark room feeling red and raw and satisfied.