The Fem Sub

One of my play partners is a writerly type and he often emails me little fantasy vignettes. Lately, because of various injuries from his non-studio activities, not to mention a bit of disconnect between what he likes to think about versus what he actually likes to do, his stories have been more aspirational than inspirational. This frustrates me.

“Could you, just one day, send me a story that actually has some possibility of happening?” I asked him.

The next day I get a tantalizing description of a scene where he’s tightly bound and I tease and torture his cock and balls while forcing him to watch Madison Young clips on Hogtied. “She obviously knew that I found her to be incredibly arousing in such situations,” he wrote. “Instantly, my cock was rock hard and I was doubled over in pain. Even without looking at the screen, the sound of her cries were continuing to arouse me. God it hurt.”

The CBT continues, intensifying until he’s alternately begging for release and begging me to stop. “Sure enough, as the video was finishing (and I was crying with desire to explode) the doorbell rang…apparently what I was going to have to watch was not going to be on a video….”

That’s where it ended. It could have gone anywhere from there but what came up was this idea of contrasting the experience of watching a video with what it’d be like to see a similar thing in person. Would it be as arousing in real life?

The part that troubled me, though, was having to torture a woman. Logistically it was a problem because I don’t know many pro femsubs. But, more significantly, whenever I’ve hired them in the past, I’ve found it difficult to really push the scene. There’s something … perverse? to me about taking someone to a place of surrender as a voyeuristic, commercial experience. Genuine submission…surrender…subspace…whatever you want to call it…is just so intensely personal, so intimate. I worried about taking someone to that very vulnerable place and having that rawness on display for a stranger’s benefit. Worse, what if I got her waaaay out on the edge and my client needed attention? Who is my priority?

*******

Elle came recommended to me by a mutual friend after my initial choice didn’t respond. I’d met Elle a week or two before and liked her tart wit but had no idea she subbed professionally on occasion. When I met her to discuss the session, we talked about how challenging it is to get your needs met in a pro scene. She explained the motivation of her masochism, which I strongly identified with (less submission and more a test of personal will). I promised I’d start with some of her favorite types of play as a warm up but warned her about my trouble doing intense play with women. “So I don’t know if you’re really gonna ‘get’ anywhere, but if you could just moan and whimper a bunch and fake an orgasm or two, we should be great.”

But that’s not what happened. At all.

When I finally removed Writer’s blindfold, he saw Elle in a lacy bra and panty set, gagged with a bright red ball and suspended by her wrists, stretched above her head. He, meanwhile, was sitting upright on the bondage table, wrists and ankles cuffed, spread, and locked in place. A metal spike KTB dug mercilessly into his hard cock. His head was in slight traction stretch of a tautly held leather head harness and, as he took in the spectacle before him, I snapped his balls into a spiky parachute and stretched a lead from the terminal ring to a pair of nipple clamps I attached to Elle’s now exposed breasts.

I started with my favorite flogger, a sensuously thuddy elk mop from Heartwood. “Mmmmphhhh!” noised Elle.

“Good girl,” I thought to myself, smiling.

Honestly, I don’t know what happened next or what pushed me to go there. Maybe it was the sheen of sweat I noticed on her skin, dampening her hair. Or the perfect pitch and urgency of her cries when I landed a particularly heavy strike. I worked my way through the increasingly more intense implements — a beefy cowhide flogger, a toughened bison then, inspired, a pair of thick, heavy rubber sticks. I grabbed a fistful of her hair and jerked her head back to look her in the eye, searching for confirmation of what I was feeling. I gave her a wink. She stared straight back at me, like a dare. Oh, yes.

Off came the nipple clamps and on went a leather bondage belt with a strategically placed D-ring that I reconnected to Writer’s parachute. “This will keep you in place,” I told Elle. Then I rigged the Hitachi at her crotch level, forcing its irresistible buzz against the growing wet spot in her panties.

Whoosh! went the floggers, the rubber sticks. I pulled up close to her so she could feel my heat and breath on her skin, then unleashed a torrent of hard punches on her back and shoulders until her knees buckled. I went and stood next to Writer, taking in the view with him. Drool hung from her chin, her hair was wet and matted against her face. Her breathing was ragged, her skin shining with sweat. “Look at the tremble in her hip,” I whispered to him.

“I know,” he said, awed. “It’s amazing.”

“I’ve never seen this side of you,” he said, looking at me. Then he said something about “teeth” or “glee.” I was riding so high in top space, I could barely understand him.

Releasing her arms from overhead, I braced them, crucifix-style, along a bamboo pole. Then came the canes. Thick birch. Rattan. Polyurethane. A sjambok. The skin on her ass ashed and hardened. I showed her the short metal rod, a gift to me from a somewhat infamous lifestyle player, first. “I know you know where this came from,” I teased. Then I struck her with it six times. The ball gag did nothing to muffle her very real screams.

When I finally unbound her, Elle crumpled, sodden and sobbing, against the foot of the bondage bed. I wrapped her in a towel and held her tight. “Good girl,” I murmured. “Look what you did. Look what you did, my good girl.” She shook in my arms. When it seemed she’d collected herself enough, I wrapped her in a robe and tucked her in the bedroom. I went back out to unlock Writer and got as far as his right wrist when I shuddered and gasped my own cathartic tears.

*******

It’s taken me a while to write this. Elle, who also writes, told me that she’d been trying herself and every time ended up making gestures at her screen and getting nowhere. What happened that day was so unexpected and so honest, that I think it resists articulation. Even Writer had trouble expressing himself: “I enjoyed it a lot more than I thought I would, but it was so real, and so intense, and she and you both were getting so much out of it that it was really gripping.”

I suppose the lesson here is one of surpassing limitations, be they Elle’s physical capacity or my preconceived notions of what I think is possible.

Maybe it’s all just an excuse to post this picture of Elle’s bottom. When she sent them, she told me, “I got a standing ovation for the bruises on my ass tonight [at an event she attended]. I feel like that standing ovation totally belongs to you.”

No, darlin. To us.