The following vignette is meant to illustrate a certain kind of hypothetical BDSM relationship, regarding which I’ll have more to say at the very end of this post.
“I wondered how long it would take you to come crawling back for another ass-kicking,” Danielle said, washing down the thought with a swig of her beer. She hadn’t bothered to offer him a drink, or a chair, but it wasn’t like he’d been expecting either.
“I’m not exactly crawling,” Martin protested mildly. “Just showing up for something I think we both need. I’ve been distracted with my job, and a new girlfriend.”
“Another one?” Danielle sniffed. “What’s she, the third this year? Anyway, you’re going to be crawling pretty soon, if you’re serious about needing it.” Danielle had never been much for small talk. She knocked back more beer and rose to her feet, a hard-looking woman in jeans and a shapeless black sweatshirt.
Martin didn’t much like Danielle’s coarse, abrasive ways, or her apparently unrelenting disdain for humanity in general and him in particular. The two of them had almost nothing in common: not their politics, not their hopes and fears, not even their taste in food or movies or music. They had both, oddly enough, been raised in Pentecostal congregations before rebelling as teenagers, but that really was more or less the only significant thing they shared. But God, he needed what she could offer on these long Saturday nights, the pain and degradation that she inflicted without the slightest apology or hesitation. For her part, Martin knew she thought he was a pompous, overeducated weakling, an overgrown boy who put on airs (though Danielle would never have phrased it like that) and needed to be slapped around for his own good. Nevertheless, some quality in him also appealed to her predatory side and made her see tormenting him as a pleasure and privilege. It wasn’t, she had told him in a moment of candour, just that he could take what she liked to call “a good ass-kicking” – there was something about the way he responded to her canes and paddles that delighted her and made her ravenous.
“So, what’ll it be?” Danielle asked bluntly.
Martin lowered his head. “I think we both know what I’m here for,” he murmured.
“Okay, then. You ready to get started?”
“Good.” She gulped down the rest of her beer, then slapped him fairly hard across the face. “That’s for making me wait so long,” she announced, and her voice held an undertone of something like tenderness.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he gasped, resisting the urge to put a hand to his stinging cheek.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find ways to make you pay.” Danielle plucked at his shirt, now all business again. “Hurry up and strip.”
He shed his clothes efficiently, well aware that Danielle had seen it all before. When he peeled off his boxer shorts, revealing his full erection, she glanced pointedly at his crotch, then up at his face. Then down at the floor.
“Hands and knees,” she told him curtly. “Go straight to the studio.”
She followed closely, kicking him now and then to hold him to a pace that hurt his knees and shins as he crawled across the bare hardwood. Once she leaned down and slapped his right buttock, her heavy hand descending with enough force to make him whimper in pain. Martin heard Danielle laugh as she drove him, slippered foot prodding relentlessly at his intermittently exposed scrotum, to the spartan little room where she did her woodcarving. Her small figures of people and animals were uninspired and kitschy, as far as Martin could see, but they apparently sold well enough to make the difference when rent came due each month. The studio was also where Danielle did her boys.
When he was roughly in the middle of the floor, she grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to a kneeling position. The familiar leather cuffs were already dangling from the ceiling on their long chain, waiting for him. She buckled them quickly around his wrists, then surprised him by hobbling his legs with another pair of shackles whose connecting chain passed through a ring in the floor. Usually she trusted him not to kick or jump around, and the sensation of leather firmly enclosing his ankles unnerved him. What exactly was Danielle planning to do to him? It was already too late to back out, too late to resist.
Martin knew that the long chain that dangled from the ceiling was attached to a winch, which Danielle had once told him rather gleefully had been installed by a friend of hers in exchange for a couple of blow jobs. She seemed interested in his own genitals only to the extent that they were more sensitive to pain than most other parts of his body. Martin could not, in fact, remember a time when Danielle had touched him except to hurt him, restrain him or push him around. Even when they had first met, after a few weeks of correspondence that had begun on a kinky website, there had been no hug or handshake – just a firm instruction to take off his shirt and get down on his knees if he wanted to stay.
Now the winch was pulling him inexorably to his feet, and finally to his toes. Danielle locked the apparatus in place and then came over to him, grinning and clearly in no hurry. She grabbed his chin.
“You little shit,” Danielle said amiably enough. “Time for you to find out what happens when you let my urges build up for too long.” Her hand dropped to his scrotum and clamped down, nails digging in hard. Martin moaned and writhed, which made her grip all the more painful. He sighed in relief when she let go, only to whimper in consternation when she took down the longest and cruellest flogger from the studio wall and swung it viciously through the empty air.
“You’re going to scream, boy,” Danielle promised as she moved in on him, flogger raised and ready.
I’m fortunate enough to be the plaything of a woman that I can like and respect, in addition to appreciating her sadistic and dominant streak. After all, My Lady and I were internet friends and fellow writers well before I started taking orders from her. However, I can’t help being intrigued by the idea of submitting to someone whom I genuinely disliked apart from her qualities as a dominant, and who disliked almost everything about me apart from my submissive side. Our mutual antipathy would only make me feel more helpless and subservient, and might inspire on her side a certain harsh, businesslike domination style that I would probably respond well to. The whole thing may be one of those scenarios that works better in the realm of fantasy than in reality, especially for any arrangement involving more than occasional sessions, but I have nothing against indulging in a good fantasy now and then.