BDSM Vignette: Up on the Stage

Two of my recurring little fantasies are being tortured in front of a crowd of spectators and being “whored out” by a dominant, either for kinky purposes or for mundane tasks like editing. I should stress that the following vignette, which combines the two, is pure fiction – but if you think you might have a use for me, and have something to offer in exchange, you can always try contacting My Lady. She rather likes the idea of making her boy’s services available to others.

***

I’d been told to arrive in the coffee shop at 5 pm sharp and look for two people in leather jackets, one red and one white. The place was nearly deserted, and I spotted them right away. They were both women, looking more stylish than kinky, and they’d established themselves at a table in one corner.

“Wheldrake?” asked the older of the two women, the one in white, who was perhaps in her fifties and had a businesslike air about her. Her short hair was dyed a bright blond colour beneath her dark little cap.

“Yes, indeed.” I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to sit, or ask questions, but the blond woman waved vaguely at the counter.

“Grab a coffee if you want one.” They already both had drinks sitting in front of them.

“I think I’m all right, thanks.”

“Have a seat, then.” She nodded to one of the empty chairs at the round table they’d chosen. “My name is Rae, and my partner is Charlene.” I assumed it was a working partnership rather than a romantic one, though I wasn’t entirely sure. Charlene was taller than Rae and a fair bit younger, with long brown hair tied back in a loose braid.

“You’ve been filled in, I assume, on the plan for this evening,” Rae said, once I’d settled into a chair.

“I was told I’d be meeting people here,” I replied cautiously, “and that you’d drive me to Ms Winters’ place. Once I get there I’ll spend the evening being, um, worked over for the amusement of Ms Winters and her guests.”

“You’re going to spend the evening being tortured,” Charlene put in with a half-smile. “Within reasonable limits, but human rights lawyers would be screaming about torture if we did the same things to captured terrorists.”

“Are the two of you going to be the ones doing the torturing?”

“Maybe a little of it,” Charlene said a bit cryptically, and Rae chuckled.

“I hope we get to,” she told me without a hint of apology, “but it depends on how the evening goes. I know Ms Winters has been looking forward to tonight, and has a lot of plans for you. Your dominant Dilo told her that you’d be excellent for her purposes, and she trusts Dilo’s judgement.”

“That’s rather flattering,” I remarked, trying to lighten the mood a little.

“What we’re going to do,” Rae told me, ploughing straight on, “is take you to the house, spend a few minutes getting you ready – which won’t involve anything painful or sexual – and then lock you in a cage. That will be the beginning of an ordeal, if you want to think of it that way, that will last until midnight. At 12 sharp the festivities will stop, and one of us will drive you back to your hotel. At that point Ms Winters will also transfer $1000 into Dilo’s account.”

It found it hard to believe that a few hours of my suffering could possibly be worth that kind of money, but of course the amount had been settled between My Lady and the mysterious Ms Winters well before I even knew that I was going to be spending this rainy November evening as her plaything.

“Before we lock the cage, we’ll ask you if you’re sure you want to stay. If you say yes to us at that point, you’re going to be at the house until midnight no matter how much you beg and plead to be let off the hook. Ms Winters doesn’t do safewords. If you change your mind at any time before the lock goes on the cage, just let us know and we’ll drive you straight to your hotel, no questions asked. Of course, Dilo won’t get her money if that happens, but that’s between you and her.”

The thought of having to explain to My Lady that she was $1000 out of pocket because I’d lost my nerve and fled from Ms Winters made me inwardly cringe. “I’ll definitely be staying,” I said aloud.

“Ms Winters will be glad to hear that,” Charlene assured me with that sly smile of hers. She glanced at her watch. “Are we about ready to head to the car? Any questions before we take you for a ride, Wheldrake?”

“Just one. What should I call you?”

Rae shrugged. “Call us Rae and Charlene, if you need to call us anything, but make sure you do what we tell you. Let’s get moving, shall we?”

The car was sleek, black and expensive-looking. Charlene opened the back door on the passenger side, and Rae motioned me in with a jaunty sweep of her arm. I took a seat, and when I was securely buckled in they pushed the door closed and climbed into the front. We slid out smoothly into the traffic, with Rae at the wheel.

“How do you feel about hip-hop, Wheldrake?” she asked.

“Not my favourite,” I replied honestly. “But I’m in no position to complain, if that’s what you want to listen to.”

“You’re not in the cage yet,” she pointed out. “Would classic rock suit you better?”

“Definitely. Thanks for that.” She cranked it up fairly loud, so that we at least had a good soundtrack as we made our way through the gathering dusk. The coffee shop was on the edge of downtown, more or less, and now we were heading out towards the suburbs. Rae and Charlene talked to each other a little, about the weather and the traffic, but didn’t seem inclined to speak to me at all. I can’t say I felt particularly like talking either, as I stared out the window and wondered what I was getting myself into. My Lady had hinted to me previously that Ms Winters was pretty well off, and sure enough we seemed to be heading into a landscape of manicured lawns and big, sprawling houses behind stone walls with imposing iron gates. I bit my lip when one of those gates swung open for us, and we cruised up a long driveway to a house that seemed absolutely enormous once we were close to it.

“Welcome to the Palace of Pain,” Charlene told me cheerfully as we all got out of the car.

“Is it really going to be that awful?”

“You’ll scream yourself hoarse well before midnight, if experience with the boys and girls we’ve brought here in the past is any guide. Right this way, please.”

They led me through a small side door, down an unassuming passageway, and into a room with a hardwood floor , a sink in one corner, and a table against one wall. The only other piece of furniture was a metal cage, mounted on wheels and probably about a metre high, wide and deep. The thing was lightly constructed, with slender bars, but still looked perfectly secure.

“This must be the cage,” I remarked inanely.

“You guessed,” Rae grinned as she closed the door behind us. “We’re on a schedule, so we’d better keep things moving. There’s a bathroom right in there, if you need or want it. This will be your last chance to use a toilet in private between now and midnight, so I suggest you take advantage of it.” She gestured towards another door, near the sink. I wasn’t feeling desperate to empty my bladder, but did so anyway, just in case. There was another sink in the bathroom, which seemed a little redundant, but I used it to wash my hands. After a moment’s thought I rinsed the head of my cock as well, on the theory that Ms Winters and her friends might want to play with it.

When I emerged from the bathroom Rae handed me a glass of water, which I was more than happy to gulp down. She gave me a long, appraising look as I set the empty glass on the table.

“Time to get serious,” she announced. “Put your shoes in this box, please. Also your watch and belt.”

The box was functional-looking and made of white plastic. I divested myself of the items she’d mentioned and drew myself up, waiting for further instructions. I could hear the blood surging in my ears.

“Empty your pockets into the box as well.”

I obeyed quickly, not unhappy to get my phone, wallet and other odds and ends out of the way. Nevertheless, I felt strangely helpless and vulnerable when I had handed everything over.

“That’s it?” Rae asked. Although I still wasn’t in the cage, she was getting considerably more brusque with me. “You don’t have anything left except your clothes?”

“Just my clothes.”

“I’m going to pat you down to make sure,” Charlene announced. “I’ll have to touch you pretty much everywhere, but I’ll keep it professional. Hands up flat against the wall, please, and legs apart.”

I assumed the position promptly, and found the light pressure of her hands far from unpleasant as she moved them meticulously over my body. She was thorough, as she’d promised she would be, and I was almost disappointed when she finally stepped away.

“Perfect,” she said, and I took that as my cue to push away from the wall and stand normally.

“Then it’s time for the cage,” Rae decreed. “Do you want a hug first?”

The offer was so incongruous that I might easily have burst out laughing, but somehow I didn’t. “Yes please,” I said in a small voice, and Rae pulled me into a tight, warm embrace. Her lips pressed briefly but firmly against my cheek.

“Good luck,” she murmured. “Ms Winters is the most sadistic person I’ve ever met, but she isn’t a psychopath. No matter how scary things get out there, and no matter how painful, you won’t be in any real danger.”

Charlene hugged me as well, without speaking, but when she released me I saw that Rae was holding the door of the cage wide open and looking at me expectantly, all business again. I took a deep breath and crawled in, trying not to think about the possible consequences. The cage was spacious enough, giving me plenty of room to manoeuvre, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to stretch out, stand up or even comfortably kneel up.

“I should draw your attention to the cameras mounted in the four upper corners,” Rae told me. “They’re nothing fancy, but they do the job. They have regular and infra-red modes, plus sound, and someone will be keeping an eye and ear on you at all times. While in the cage you’re expected to sit quietly, avoid tampering with the cameras or trying to reach out through the bars, keep your clothes on, and keep your hands well away from your crotch. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“Then we can go ahead.” She pushed the cage door shut and held up a steel padlock. In contrast to the cage itself, it looked much more solid than was really necessary. “Do you want me to lock you in, Wheldrake? If you say yes, there’s no turning back. You can take a couple of minutes to make up your mind if you need to.”

“Please go ahead,” I told her at once.

“Yes sir,” said Rae ironically, and snapped the padlock into place.

Charlene was already reaching under the cage. She pulled out an expanse of black cloth, like a conjuror performing a less than spectacular trick, and the two women drew it carefully over the roof of the cage and down to the bottoms of the walls. With the cloth in place the interior of the cage wasn’t exactly pitch black, but it was certainly dark. The cameras, I supposed, would switch to infra-red. The cage began to move, rolling across the hardwood floor and then out into the corridor.

“Jesus,” Charlene said. “From now on Ms Winters should only take girls and ninety-pound weaklings.”

Rae laughed. “She’d get bored. Just keep pulling – it’s good exercise.”

Despite the grousing, the cage continued to roll along smoothly, then abruptly came to a halt. I shivered, but the black cloth stayed in place and I heard no instructions. Music started up, the kind of light and happy-sounding jazz that I’ve always found basically irritating. This time, of course, no one asked my opinion about the choice of music. I was in the cage.

It was impossible to tell how much time was passing, but eventually I began to hear voices – mostly those of women, but with some deeper male ones mixed in. Now and then a wave of laughter would sweep through whatever assembly was gathering. I lowered my head in something like fear when the music finally stopped, and the group fell silent.

“Welcome to the main entertainment I have lined up for you this evening,” an amplified female voice proclaimed from somewhere nearby. With no further ado, the sheet of fabric that had been covering the cage was suddenly whisked away, leaving me blinking in the sudden glare of spotlights that were aimed in my direction.

“It’s my pleasure to introduce Wheldrake,” the amplified voice continued. “He takes orders from my good friend Dilo, and she agreed to rent his body out to us for a very reasonable price. She swears he’ll be an interesting victim, and I usually find her reliable in these matters. Turn towards the audience, Wheldrake, so they can have a look at your pretty face.”

Despite being sceptical about the “pretty” part, I immediately spun around in the cage, wanting to please my captors. The cage was on a kind of elevated stage surrounded by a few rows of chairs, perhaps half of which were occupied by women and a sprinkling of men. Some of them applauded as I turned to face them, and their expressions seemed to glow with cruel anticipation. I shrank back against the bars of the cage but I had nowhere to run, let alone hide. Glancing nervously around, I caught sight of the woman who was speaking into the microphone, standing off to my left. She was tall and curvy, with shoulder-length black hair and a blunt, hard face that was far from conventionally beautiful. If this was the infamous Ms Winters, she looked like a formidable woman indeed.

“As usual, we have a strong and skillful pair of hands to help us with the boy. Most of you know John Dufreyne, a man who knows everything about working over male bodies. Come on down, John!”

He had clearly been waiting for his cue, because he emerged immediately from a door at the back of the room. People turned in their chairs and craned their necks to look as he made his leisurely way towards the stage, and I sucked in a nervous breath. John Dufreyne was a powerful-looking man with dark skin and a shaven head, considerably taller than me and broad across the shoulders. Members of the audience reached out and touched him as he walked past their chairs, as if he was a boxer heading to the ring. He seemed to take no notice, but bounded up on the stage and immediately peeled off his black T-shirt to another round of applause. He was still wearing loose pants of the same colour, but I could see that he was intimidatingly muscular at least from the waist up. However, his air of perfect assurance was somehow even more terrifying than his physique. I wondered if he was a friend of Ms Winters or an employee, or even her submissive.

“Are you ready to see some action?” the black-haired woman practically purred into the microphone. She smiled in response to the chorus of applause and shouting, and fished a key out from between her breasts. I watched with an inward shudder as she pressed the key into John’s outstretched hand.

“Get Wheldrake out of the cage and warm him up for us,” she commanded. “Take your time, and don’t be too gentle.”

“Yes, Ms Winters,” John replied in a deep voice. At least I knew whom I was dealing with, but that provided little consolation as John stooped down and unlocked the cage. To my surprise, he didn’t open it at once, but instead smashed his open palm down on the bars above my head. I cringed as my little metal prison rattled around me. He circled the cage like a panther, grinning and looking me in the eye as his hand struck at the walls and roof. With every crashing blow I felt a little more frightened, a little more helpless. It was all I could do not to moan aloud when he flung the cage door open and grabbed the front of my shirt, but I scrambled out obediently rather than making him drag me by brute force.

John took my arm and hauled me to my feet, which only made me more viscerally aware of how he towered over me. His strong hands turned me towards the audience, so that I was looking down at a few dozen faces that stared back at me with expressions ranging from mild interest to cruel anticipation. He caught me from behind in a powerful embrace, pinning my arms to my sides, and lifted me effortlessly off my feet to a burst of applause and laughter. When he set me down his left arm stayed in place, ensuring that I went exactly nowhere, while his right groped relentlessly at my chest and thighs and crotch. I squirmed, but there was no escape. He had me turned partly to the side now, so that the audience had a clear view when he suddenly licked the back of my neck. Taken by surprise, I shuddered in his arms.

My tormentor forced me to my knees, so easily that I felt like a small, helpless boy. He walked a slow circle around me, not hurrying, as I forced myself to keep still with my hands at my sides. I felt him pull off one of my socks, with that same slow deliberation, sparking a murmur and another ripple of laughter from the crowd. Maybe he held the sock up to them, or something. He took the other one a moment later, then immediately reached around me from behind and above to unbutton my shirt. I bit my lip as he drew it off my shoulders and took it away, leaving me barefoot and stripped to the waist.

John took my arm and seemed about to haul me to my feet again, but Ms Winters interrupted. “Bring him over here to pay his respects, while he’s on his knees,” she insisted. John put his hand on the back of my neck to guide me, but I was already shuffling across the stage towards the woman who had rented me for the evening. She stood over me, a tyrannical figure in a long black dress that sparkled in the light.

“I know foot-kissing is a special thing between you and Dilo,” she told me, “and I won’t try to interfere with that. Put your forehead down on the floor, here at my feet.”

I obeyed at once, kowtowing to her. There was another round of applause. Ms Winters hadn’t told me how long to stay in place, so I simply kept my head down until I felt the tip of her shoe prod roughly at one of my shoulders.

“Enough, boy. Kneel up.” This time she made no move to intervene when John grabbed me and made me stand. I didn’t think I’d spent more than ten or fifteen seconds at Ms Winters’ feet, but someone – presumably John – had wheeled the cage out of the way and somehow lowered a horizontal bar on a chain from the high ceiling. At either end of the bar dangled a leather cuff.

I raised my hands without being told, and John buckled the cuffs around my wrists. I pulled at them experimentally, and found that I was perfectly helpless.

He unfastened the single button at the top of my jeans, but didn’t peel them off or even unzip them. Instead, he smacked my left buttock with his open hand, hard enough to make me gasp in pain. Again he circled me, powerful and menacing, and every so often a hand shot out to land a stinging slap on my thigh, my chest or shoulder, or perhaps my ass. Once or twice he hit me lightly across the face, to a throaty murmur of approval. Now that I was standing and looking out at the crowd, I could see that there were twenty or thirty people in attendance, including only a handful of men. Their clothing and demeanour ranged from very casual to a little on the formal side, and their expressions from mild interest to intense, predatory anticipation. I spotted Rae and Charlene at the back of the room, apart from the others, looking inscrutable.

John finally did unzip my pants, and they slid halfway down my thighs almost immediately. He pulled them to my ankles and I obediently stepped out of them, wanting to please and knowing resistance would be futile in any case. It felt surreal, though, to be standing restrained in front of a crowd in just the purple briefs My Lady had instructed me to put on for the occasion.

“Punch him!” someone yelled, and John obligingly drove his fist into my belly. There wasn’t a great deal of force behind the blow, but it still made me groan in pain. He began to throw harder, more stinging punches at the better-padded parts of my body he’d been slapping a minute ago, and I grunted and gasped and writhed like a fish on a hook. I sighed in relief when he stopped for a moment and turned me around, presenting my back to the crowd. He pulled down that side of my underwear, exposing my buttocks, and then began to spank with fierce, deliberate blows. I whimpered and danced, pulling helplessly at the cuffs that held me fast.

People were calling out to him to finish stripping me, and he finally complied, leaving me buck naked but still turned away from the audience. I expected more spanking, or perhaps more punches, but to my surprise he went to a little cabinet set into the back wall of the stage. When he returned he was carrying a metal bar with a leather cuff at either end, and I took deep, nervous breaths as he fastened the cuffs around my ankles and then spun me back around to face the crowd. Suddenly I was completely exposed to them, completely vulnerable. It didn’t help that I was stiff as a board, excited by my helplessness and by the scrutiny of the women.

“We’ll give the boy a few minutes to catch his breath, now that we can see his body properly,” Ms Winters announced. “Perhaps some of you would like to come up here and introduce yourselves.”

Almost all of the assembled men and women took that as a cue to make for the stage, and suddenly I was mobbed. I soon learned that they considered it perfectly acceptable to introduce themselves simply by touching me, or even by inflicting a little pain. A tall, wiry woman pinched my nipple hard enough to make me wince, just as a strong hand cupped my right buttock.

“Do you always clench up like this?” a man’s voice asked, sounding amused.

“Dilo warned me he had a problem with that,” Ms Winters cut in. “Are you scared, Wheldrake? Do you think we’re about to start hitting you back there?”

“I suppose I’m just a little nervous,” I replied, deliberately unclenching as best I could.

“Well, try to relax. After all, this show isn’t even really on the road yet.” I felt her cool hand take possession of my other cheek, the sharp nails digging in just a little. “And I want to hear you say ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ when you speak to anyone in this room.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I managed to gasp out, and she chuckled and moved away to make room for her guests. I tried to respond graciously to the ones who did introduce themselves by name, and endure with a modicum of poise the insistent hands that ranged over my body.

A plump woman with bare arms and long, tousled hair sidled up to me and rested a casual hand on my shoulder. “I’m Nicole,” she announced, “and I’m going to be egging them on all night because I want to watch them fucking break you. Don’t take it personally, though – I just have a thing for dudes in distress, and you look like you’re going to be fun.” She caressed my flank, smiling.

“My sentiments exactly,” another female voice said from behind me. I felt teeth sink into my shoulder, though not with any great force.

An unusual trio, a man and two women, were closing in on me from the front. They were all east Asian, and the man and one of the women looked to be well into their forties. The other woman was much younger, and her glasses, nape-length hair and Berkeley T-shirt gave her the air of a studious undergraduate.

“This must be Julia,” Ms Winters almost purred as they approached.

“That’s right,” the older woman said. “We’ve always said she could come with us to one of your soirees when she turned eighteen, and her birthday was a couple of weeks ago.”

“Welcome,” Ms Winters told her, sounding genuinely pleased. “I’ll make sure you get a chance to lay a good beating on our plaything sometime this evening, if you want to.”

“I think I’d like that,” Julia replied a little timidly. The man I assumed was her father, meanwhile, was kneading experimentally at my chest, his hands strong and assertive.

“I’ll bet you could really make him squeal,” he opined.

“Can I talk to him?” Julia asks.

“Yes, of course.”

Julia looked me in the eye, and seemed to be considering her options. “What made you decide to be here?” she asked finally.

“It wasn’t entirely my decision, ma’am,” I replied. Her father was still groping my upper body, and her mother had taken to tracing meandering lines across my chest with one sharp fingernail. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it definitely wasn’t comfortable.

“I take orders from a woman I call My Lady,” I continued, trying to talk as if being interrogated about my submissive side by an 18-year-old while her parents toyed with my nude, restrained body was entirely normal. “She decided to lend me to Ms Winters for the evening, in return for a payment. I suppose you could say she whored me out, ma’am.”

I expected Julia to laugh, but she didn’t. “So how do you feel about being, um, whored out?”

“Nervous, ma’am, but I have to admit it’s also exciting. This looks like it’s shaping up to be a memorable evening, and the whole situation makes me feel very subservient to My Lady. I find that fulfilling at a deep, fundamental level.”

“I don’t really get it,” she confessed, “but it sounds like you’re here voluntarily, just like everyone said. That means I can touch you.” With that established, she put her hands on my chest and drew them slowly down my torso, smiling.

“You can pinch his nipples, if you want,” her mother suggested. “Make him squirm a little.”

Julia hesitantly took my nipples between her fingertips, but barely bore down at all.

“Harder than that.”

Her fingers tightened, and I gasped and jerked in my restraints despite my best efforts. Julia looked startled, but dropped her hands to my crotch without any prompting. She held my penis for only a second, but seemed much more interested in my balls, rolling them around in the palm of her hand.

“They’re not like I imagined at all,” she remarked. “They’re so – so loose.”

“Feel free to squeeze, honey,” Julia’s mother said encouragingly. I groaned as her hand clenched around my scrotum, but mercifully she released me almost at once. She kissed the corner of my mouth, shyly, and then turned away.

“You guys were right,” I heard her enthuse to her parents as they went back to their seats. “This is awesome. I love the way he has to call me ma’am.”

They were among the last of the audience to leave the stage. When everyone was back in place, Ms Winters put a hand on my shoulder and addressed the crowd.

“The boy’s had enough of a breather, I think. What shall we do with him now?”

I was surprised by the enthusiasm of the response from the assembled group. People were calling out for paddles, floggers, straps, clamps, even knives. I shuffled back the few centimetres that my restraints allowed, genuinely intimidated.

“Cane him!” Nicole shouted, and leaned back in her chair with a grin.

After a minute Ms Winters held up her hand for quiet. “We’ll get to everything,” she assured them. “But John, I want you to start him off with a slow, hard flogging.”

There was a pause, then a burst of clapping. He was probably holding up the dreaded implement, somewhere behind me. Then leather tails descended across my shoulders in a powerful, stinging blow, and I moaned in pain. The crowd answered with a roar of predatory excitement. I shuddered in my restraints, knowing that my evening on the stage had only just begun.

The Elegant, Implacable Efficiency of Handcuffs

I can appreciate the visual appeal of a body in the embrace of elaborate Japanese ropework or the quirky creativity of immobilising a man in an upright coffin with an inflatable lining, but on the whole My Lady and I are both on a different and much more pragmatic page when it comes to bondage. The best restraints, as far as we’re concerned, are ones that permit a dominant (like her) to reduce a submissive (like me) to a state of abject powerlessness and vulnerability as easily as possible. It’s not about aesthetics, sensuality, the latest gear, or complexity for its own sake; it’s about making the dominant’s power over the submissive concrete, physical, and unchallengeable. A boy kneeling naked but unrestrained at a woman’s feet could, in theory, get up and run off at any moment. A boy chained by the ankle to a ring in the floor will be staying right there, like it or not, until someone lets him go.

Chained ankles have their merits, but My Lady and I both have a particular appreciation for the elegant, implacable efficiency of handcuffs, especially when used to lock, say, a man’s wrists together behind his back. A few precise clicks of steel against steel, and the prisoner is abject and deliciously vulnerable, his arms unceremoniously rendered useless. He has no way to fend off hands groping the most intimate parts of his body, straps and canes licking at his flesh, even hungry mouths kissing, sucking or biting. He’s also easy to control, unable to mount much resistance against captors who might choose to drag him down the stairs to some hidden dungeon or perhaps bundle him into a vehicle so that he can be taken somewhere really scary. A man with his hands cuffed behind him is a man who is pretty much at someone’s mercy.

Under normal circumstances, My Lady doesn’t have any way of subjecting me to that level of helplessness. We live far enough apart that she can’t generally even keep tabs on me except through the e-mail reports I’m required to send at least every couple of days, let alone put me in handcuffs or any other form of restraint. I obey her instructions and follow her rules because of the seriousness of my decision to voluntarily surrender to her authority, not because she has mechanisms in place to literally force me to do what she says. When the going gets tough, it’s my own commitment to being her servant, plaything and willing victim that makes me leave the nipple clamps in place for every second of the time she decreed, or stick to her limits on alcohol consumption when I would dearly love just one more drink, or take a deep breath and slide the butt plug deep into my subservient ass.

When I visited her late last year, however, she took advantage of the situation to experiment with more tangible forms of control. Taking me to a kinky party in a house with an incredibly well-equipped basement gave her a golden opportunity. At one point I found myself being ushered by My Lady and one of our hosts into a cage that was low enough to make standing, kneeling or even sitting impossible, though I had plenty of room to stretch out on my front, back or side. After the cage door was closed and locked, though, they were quick to snatch away even that limited freedom of movement. They ordered me onto my back, cuffed my wrists to the bars on opposite sides of the cage, and cuffed my ankles together outside the bars at the foot. And there I was, unable to roll over or even scratch my itches, held immobile by leather and steel as the party went on around me. People ambled by, carried on conversations, sometimes even leaned or sat on the cage as they chatted. “Are you still there?” a woman asked me at one point, sounding amused. I was clothed all through this little ordeal, but my shirt was open, and eventually My Lady dropped by to check on me and reached into the cage to give one of my nipples a gentle pinch. Even if I’d been unrestrained, I would never have dared to try to stop her, or even to pull away. But knowing I physically couldn’t do anything to evade or fend off her touch took my sense of helplessness and subservience to a whole new level.

The next day, My Lady and her partner did put me in handcuffs. However, they found it practical to lock my wrists together in front of my body, so I was spared the more abject helplessness of having them pinioned behind my back. Next time, I might very well not be so lucky.

Hints, Commands and Explicitness

I’m required to run all my posts by My Lady before I put them on the blog. Sometimes she waves them through, and sometimes she tells me to make changes. When I sent a draft of my earlier post on “hot dystopias”, she responded with:

I like your blog post overall and, in particular, your perspective on the eroticism you found in 1984.

I was gratified, naturally – praise from My Lady means a lot to me, partly because I’m under her control and partly because she’s sharp and discerning – but I was also in a bit of a quandary. She hadn’t actually told me whether to proceed with the post or not. After thinking about it briefly I published the post, but wrote back:

I went ahead and put up the blog post, ma’am, with the usual last-minute tweaks to the wording. You didn’t explicitly instruct me to post it, of course, but I took your positive evaluation of the post as a kind of implicit green light. I hope that wasn’t a mistake, or at least not one severe enough to make you decide to hand me over to the Thought Police.

This led to an e-mail exchange about communication styles and ways of conveying instructions. My Lady brought up the influence of gender:

I’ve been learning that men are less willing to make assumptions, even when the context or other factors makes the meaning quite clear…

My experience matches My Lady’s in that I do think men tend to be a little more explicit than women, and perhaps deal less well with lack of explicitness from others. I don’t pretend to understand the root causes of that general pattern, but in my own case I think there’s a personality-related reason and a D/s-related reason for my preference for explicitness.

The personality-related reason is just that I attach a lot of value to clarity. Once upon a time I was a bookish, awkward teenager, less than adept at reading social cues, and I learned that I often had difficulty understanding others and making myself understood. As a result, I worked hard to avoid misunderstandings, not always successfully. Many years later, I still have my moments of confusion in social situations, though they don’t happen as often as they used to. I’ve become better at parsing what people say, and interpreting what they do. I’ve also learned that when I don’t quite understand what’s going on, taking a minute to formulate and ask a couple of polite but direct questions can help immensely. When e-mailing or texting, I can take a bit more time and write rather than talk, so I find it even easier to put together the right questions when someone is communicating in a way I find vague or unclear. Nevertheless, I appreciate people who write and say what they mean, and I try to be equally direct with others even if I come across as a little blunt. It just seems better that way for everyone involved, although my concept of “better” may be unduly influenced by my preoccupation with avoiding misunderstandings.

My D/s-related reason is that I think explicitness is a quality that befits both submissives and dominants, for different reasons. When I write to My Lady about what I’ve been thinking, feeling and doing lately, or answer a question she’s asked, laying all the pertinent information on the table without any waffling or obfuscation is an act of submission in itself. If I have to report something that I find embarrassing or distasteful to discuss, or something I suspect will displease her, I often have to grit my teeth in order to resist the temptation to gloss over critical details or retreat into vagueness. However, that semi-confessional process can also be pretty hot, underneath the emotional discomfort. At some deeper level it’s exciting and erotic that I’m not entitled to conceal my thoughts and actions from My Lady behind a smokescreen of equivocal words, any more than I’m entitled to conceal my body with clothes when she wants to see me naked (we’re well past that early, though prolonged, stage when she still hadn’t seen my penis).

If submissive explicitness is about not being permitted to use obscurity as a way of maintaining privacy, dominant explicitness is about exerting confident, precise control over a subordinate. The clearer My Lady’s instructions, the less room I have for interpretation in carrying them out. Moreover, considerate people often “test the waters” by dropping hints about what they might want before they actually ask for it. When My Lady gives me instructions without any prior beating around the bush, especially orders that require me to do something difficult, taxing or hard to endure, she’s denying me the respect for my feelings and preferences that I can usually expect as an adult in polite society. Instead, I’m being treated as someone who can simply be told what to do, which pushes buttons that make me feel deeply, excitingly subservient to her. The more explicit and thorough the instructions, the more I feel uncompromisingly dominated, and it also helps if the instructions are issued a style that My Lady and I sometimes called “unadorned” – no softening or sugarcoating, no pleases, thank yous, or other little expressions of courtesy. Do this, boy. Don’t do that. You may do this, you may not do that. Do this other thing by Monday, in exactly the way I’m about to describe. Do it wearing only your collar, and send a photo. Do it whether you want to or not – although she never has to actually spell that one out, because it goes without saying.

I do understand that less explicit forms of communication also have their possibilities. My Lady will sometimes drop ominous hints about what she might have in store for me in the future, which is probably more unnerving for me, amusing for her and erotic for both of us than a straightforward explanation of her plans would be. I can see, too, how it would be fun for a dominant to issue incomplete or ambiguous instructions, and then sit back and enjoy watching her boy struggle to work out how to obey. Games like this aside, My Lady likes submissives to learn her needs and develop some ability to anticipate them, and to demonstrate their intelligence by working out what she wants them to do. In fact, she says that giving precise orders doesn’t come naturally to her, although I can testify from experience that she’s awfully good at it. Probably it helps that she’s well aware that the explicit approach can be both practical, in some situations, and very erotic. For my part, I can understand how leaving me to figure out her needs and desires might sometimes be easier for her, even if I might find the process difficult. My Lady doesn’t always choose to make things easy for me, and of course I wouldn’t have it any other way.

There are also times when a more or less subtle suggestion from a dominant can be like the crack of a whip. A few months ago I finally had the opportunity to spend a weekend visiting My Lady and her partner, who shares fully in her authority over me but normally doesn’t do much about it or communicate with me directly. They had me spend a few sweaty hours each day helping them with some fairly heavy-duty yard work, and on Sunday this extended far enough into the afternoon that we had an outdoor lunch break. At one point My Lady reminded me that my break wasn’t to be too “leisurely”, and although her tone was quite casual I still felt sharply reminded of my subservience – it was one of those moments when I would have loved to spontaneously kneel down, press my lips to her boots and spend a few minutes just revelling in her power over me. Unfortunately, we were visible from the road and I had work to do, and I wouldn’t go throwing myself at My Lady’s feet without permission anyway.

In my experience, however, things like that are the exception. Usually it’s explicit commands rather than little hints that make my lips hunger for a taste of My Lady’s boots, and on my side I try to be very clear and straightforward in my communications with her for the sake of submissive transparency. Enough about me, though. If you are dominant and/or submissive, how do you like to communicate with your partner(s)? How do you like your partner(s) to communicate with you?

Wicked Wonderland – New Lyrics to an Old Song

To my submissive brain there’s something intrinsically erotic about winter, the season when nature becomes stark, unforgiving and even a bit cruel. At its best, winter torments us with cold, howling winds, shows us who’s boss by dumping snow all over our streets and driveways, and gives us a dominant’s harsh choice between confining ourselves to warm homes and cars or shivering outside in the dark. I think winter is terrific.

Perhaps this attitude to winter partly explains why new, BDSM-flavoured lyrics to an old holiday song began to come into my head on Christmas morning. When I sent the finished verses to My Lady, she instructed me to turn them into a post, so I’ll present them without further ado.

Wicked Wonderland

On my chest, clamps are gleaming
Down my flanks, sweat is streaming
My shackles are tight
I’m moaning tonight
Writhing in your wicked wonderland.

Gone away is the bluebird,
In your cage, I’m the new bird,
Your knife and your tongs
Elicit strange songs
Terrors of your wicked wonderland.

In the meadow I’ll build you a snowman,
With a badge that says Big Sheriff Brown
You’ll say “Arrest this boy”
And he’ll say “Sure, ma’am,
“Just let me cuff his wrists and take him down.”

Later on, you’ll conspire
With your friends, by the fire
And I’ll be afraid
Of the plans that you’ve made,
Ruling in your wicked wonderland.

Posted in Whimsy. Tags: , , . 1 Comment »

Erotic Stories to Support the Trevor Project

For a limited time only, get six great M/M titles for an incredibly low price. All proceeds go to The Trevor Project, a national organization providing crisis intervention and suicide prevention services to LGBTQ young people.

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Hot Dystopias – My Fantasies Of Totalitarian Control

I’ve never heard George Orwell described as an erotic writer, but 1984 contains passages that work for me at that level. The following one, for example, leading up to the arrest of the protagonist Winston and his lover Julia:

It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do nothing except stand gazing into one another’s eyes. To run for life, to get out of the house before it was too late – no such thought occurred to them. Unthinkable to disobey the iron voice from the wall. There was a snap as though a catch had been turned back, and a crash of breaking glass. The picture had fallen to the floor, uncovering the telescreen behind it.

“Now they can see us,” said Julia.

“Now we can see you,” said the voice. “Stand out in the middle of the room. Stand back to back. Clasp your hands behind your heads. Do not touch one another.”

They were not touching, but it seemed to him that he could feel Julia’s body shaking. Or perhaps it was merely the shaking of his own. He could just stop his teeth from chattering, but his knees were beyond his control. There was a sound of trampling boots below, inside the house and outside. The yard seemed to be full of men.

The control exerted over Winston and Julia by the totalitarian system personified as Big Brother is entirely non-consensual, of course, not to mention brutal and suffocating. I’m in no rush to trade my mutually fulfilling BDSM relationship with My Lady for a one-way ticket to some cruel dystopia. Nevertheless, dystopias can be amazingly hot as settings for submissive fantasies of the starker and more impersonal variety. The same dark little part of my psyche that is deeply fascinated by prisons and incarceration is irresistibly drawn to the idea of living in a society where I would be subject to strict rules and constant surveillance, and risk being told to stand still and await arrest with my hands behind my head if I stepped out of line. As a devotee of female power I’d just prefer that the iron voice from the wall belonged to Big Sister, rather than Big Brother.

The kind of system described in 1984 is just one possibility, though. Hot dystopias come in endless varieties, united only by the incorporation of various forms of inequality, coercion, exploitation, sadism and totalitarian control into the social fabric. A capitalist version of 1984 might feature lifelong “unpaid internships” that amounted to virtual slavery, or perhaps a system of voluntary but literal and legally binding slavery to which the poor would flock out of desperation. A variation on Robert Heinlein’s Starship Troopers, a futuristic novel in which only people who had completed a term of military service were treated as full citizens with voting rights, could require young men and women to submit to two years of indentured servitude in exchange for citizenship. Or perhaps just the men would be expected to submit, not just for a couple of years but for the rest of their natural lives? As each generation reached the age of majority, everyone would then be acutely aware that the women were headed for productive and fulfilling careers whereas the men were going to end up as their abject slaves.

Under that system, as I imagine it, a man would be allowed to celebrate his 21st birthday, but afterwards he’d have exactly 180 days to report to his local Male Employment Recruitment Centre (I like to think Orwell would approve of the name). At the Centre he’d be taken into custody, branded with a unique number, and subjected to a battery of assessment procedures that would determine his future placement. Some men would be sold to women as personal slaves, others would made available to corporations and other employers as highly trainable slave workers, and the most unfortunate (except possibly those who ended up as the personal slaves of very sadistic owners) would be sent to grim labour camps where they’d toil away under relentless overseers who might be either androids or women with bionic enhancements that gave them overwhelming physical strength.

Democracy and equality are so nice by comparison, and also (that dark little part of my psyche insists) so painfully boring. It’s a good thing I have My Lady to tell me what to do, ensure I’m never burdened with too much freedom, comfort or dignity, and make me squeal now and then.

e[lust] #64

Below is a copy of the November edition — Enjoy!

Elust #64

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Photo courtesy of Cheeky Minx

Welcome to Elust #64

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #65? Start with the rules, come back December1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

On a special note I want to mention that the judges voting on Elust is often very close, this month more than most. You all do such fine work that it is very hard for us to come up with the final results.

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

Ownership: On Sexuality & Feminine Relations

Tool Time

Seven – A Fairytale of Sorts

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

The Love Letter of O
To My Single Submissive Friends – Be Brave

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
What S/He Said: Pressing Stop

All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

Writing about Writing

How We Talk About Play

Erotic Fiction

The Warehouse
Taking Chance
The Little Mermaid
Trick or Treat
Bad Sex Turns Good
Shall We Dance?
Let’s Play a Game (Spuffy Erotica)
Firemen

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

A MakeLoveNotPorn Reality Check
Pondering Dildos as Art
Where does bdsm come from? Other species/
A Females Perspective on Extreme Feminists

Erotic Non-Fiction

Fucking on Facebook
A lot of Patience
Hands Away
Tall Dark and Handsome Pleasant Surprise
Torture His Balls. Tease His Cock.
Caning Sometime?
I Took my Pony Slave Shopping
Private Dancer
Earning Pleasure The Hard Way
At the Movies

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Finding Shelter in the Shadows.
My First Scarification
Q: “What’s stopping me from reporting owner?”
Squirting…Fact Not Fiction-Part 3

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Shiny Lesbian Syndrome
Communicate!
Losing it, asking for it
Celebration
How I Handle Being A Parent & Sex Positive
Sex as the most intimate performance
The crowded mirror
Sex Hangover

Poetry

Penisaurus – a Lusty Limerick

Blogging

Sex toys are NOT required for fantastic sex
My paint brush is empty.

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