Sure, I’m a sadist. But I’m an ethical sadist with enough empathy to say, truthfully, that I don’t enjoy dishing out pain someone isn’t enjoying. (How someone can enjoy feeling pain is a whole separate column—hell, it’s an entire book.) Still, erotic sadists like me take pleasure in tormenting willing victims until they safeword, and every heavy BDSM top has wondered to themselves at some point in their career, “I wonder just how mean could I be, if I had someone who was consenting?”
You might think someone in my profession gets to do extreme scenes all the time. Actually, I’d say about half the professional sessions I do are physically quite mild—some light spanking, a few clothespins here and there, a tickling with a soft flogger. Of the other half, most are in the mild-to-medium category: a good warm-up, with a few carefully timed moments of sharp, intense sensation that bring forth gasps and groans. A scene that leaves the submissive with a day or two of, say, sore nipples or a red, sensitive butt, but no more. And those are fun scenes. I enjoy them.
But, every now and then, you get someone who says, “Do your absolute worst. I can take it.” This was the case with a certain man I once met. He said he’d been to other mistresses before, but no one had ever been able to push him until he used his safeword. He wanted me to try.
That’s my kind of challenge. I remember thinking, Those other dommes must have been candy-asses. I’ll so make this guy beg for mercy.
Like most masochists he was quite specific about exactly what kind of pain he wanted: impact on the ass. No needles, no electricity, no cock and ball torture. But I could do anything that involved hitting his butt until he cried “’Nuff!”
I got out my evilest toys: the flogger made out of thick strips of rubber car tires, the thinnest canes that cut the skin with every stroke, inch-thick wooden fraternity paddles, the whip that’s got lead shot braided into the thin leather tail. He climbed onto the spanking bench and before he bent forward he gave me one last bit of information. “Don’t give me any warm-up, just go right into the heavy stuff. If you do warm-up, my endorphins kick in and you’ll never get me to break.”
“No warm-up? No problem,” I replied, and brought my rubber flogger against his ass with a resounding thwack. The vibration of the blow ran up my arm and into my body in a very pleasing way. I’m really going to enjoy this, I thought.
And I did. But as the session went on, it became clear to me that those other dominatrixes had not been wimpy. This guy was taking everything I dished out, and while he was squirming and gasping, I could tell he was nowhere near safewording.
I swung my whip harder, using more follow-through to get my whole body behind the blow. The yelps went up a notch, but not enough. I took a long wooden paddle, grasped it in both hands, and swung it like Mark McGwire hitting a home run. He howled and shuddered—but still, he didn’t safeword.
We’d run way over time, and I was sweating and panting with exertion. His black and blue behind was already swelling up. If I did much more, I might seriously damage him. I had to admit the truth: within the parameters that he’d set, I could not push this man to his physical limit.
After some water and a few minutes rest, he examined his welted ass in the mirror, smiled, and then shook his head regretfully. “You’re good, and that was fun, but… you gave me warm-up,” he said. “That’s why I didn’t break. But I’ll come back next time I’m in town and we can try again.”
I replied, “Darlin’, your idea of warm-up would make most people safeword. Are you going to be okay sitting on the plane?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll only be sore for a few hours.”
Me? My arm and shoulder were sore for the next two days. Be careful what you wish for, sadists.
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