Added: Amrita Shimp - Date: 28.07.2021 22:19 - Views: 30977 - Clicks: 753
When I began working as a submissive at a commercial dungeon inFifty Shades of Grey was topping pun intended the bestseller lists—but my own interest in BDSM had begun many years before Christian Grey made floggers and riding crops kink torture part of pop culture. When I saw that scene in my early twenties, I wanted nothing more than to know how that crop would feel against my own flesh. There were other books and movies too: Belle de Jour and Story of Owhere the heroines endured the lashes of whips that excited and terrified in equal measure.
These women were submissive, but they seemed strong and courageous, too. They transgressed the norms of their societies, seeking pain and sensation and sex, not caring if their safe, respectable lives were upended in the process. I wanted to be like these women, but for a long time I lacked their courage. I also lacked kink torture combination of knowledge and luck—of knowing where to go and meeting the right person at the right time—that would have allowed me to satisfy my desires in a pre- 50 Shades world.
I was turned off, too, by the side of BDSM that seemed outlandish, by turns intimidating and ridiculous: pink-fur-wrapped handcuffs, menacing leather masks, spiked collars. That was the side I saw after 50 Shades took off, the symbols of BDSM suddenly gone mainstream, and all that paraphernalia only made me feel more unsure.
At the dungeon, silly fur-wrapped handcuffs did hang on our equipment wall, although ours were leopard-printed and tiger-striped, not electric pink. But so did countless other objects, some strange and others perfectly ordinary, now allowed to transgress their normal uses. These were the implements I considered the silliest when I started working at the dungeon. There was a reason we called them toysright? If I was going to kink torture spanked, I wanted it to feel real, an act brought on by a sudden passion, a need that could only be fulfilled by a hand or whatever real-life object might be nearby—a hairbrush, a belt.
Wood paddles were another story. But the wood was a symbol of sorts: wielding or submitting to those implements meant you were tough. It stung much more than you would expect, for something I used to fling a white plastic ball around as. Maybe the appeal was in the sleek elegance of the implement, that long black stem flowering into a single leather petal. Maybe it was the fact riding crops were intended to be used on animals rather than people. They brought to mind groomsmen in old-fashioned formal wear, coats with long tails, like the opening scene of Belle de Jour.
But how did the riding crop feel? Used lightly and repetitively, it flitted across my skin like an irritating fly. Harder, it was a flash of fire, a ghost of a brand. Early on in my submissive career, I made the mistake of allowing a client to use it—full strength—on my pussy, over my underwear.
It felt like my womb snapped in two. One of kink torture rare forms of pain that, in those early years, I truly disliked. They were meant for disciplining schoolboys in England, or criminals in Singapore, as far as I knew. Nothing to do with the passionate, clandestine sort of punishment I imagined. But I soon discovered that at the dungeon, these slim, snappy lengths of wood, with their painted handles or looped ends that resembled an ordinary walking cane, held a special ificance. While canes could certainly hurt, a quick, stingy slice of pain, the extra fee was more because of the marks they left behind.
Just one well-delivered stroke could cause a thick red welt to bloom across your ass or thighs. A series of blows, and your flesh would be striped for a few days. Cane marks could break skin, bleed, and in extreme cases, scar. If I loved the marks canes left behind, I loved the experience of being flogged. Really it was whips that had always enticed me. The Story of O was full of whippings, of O writhing beneath the bite of the lash, crying and pleading—maybe for mercy, maybe for more.
They were difficult to use and if wielded incorrectly, could take out an eye. So floggers were the best substitute. Long strands of leather, attached to a wood or metal handle. Depending on how stiff or soft, thick or slender the strips of leather were—and how the implement was used, of course—floggers could sting like a true whip or caress like the hands of a lover. To make the fantasy perfect, I only had to close my eyes. There were other toys at the dungeon, of course.
Hairbrushes and rulers for spanking; stingy belts and leather straps; the Wartenberg pinwheel with its tiny spikes to be rolled across the skin. There were clothespins that could turn any inch of flesh into a taut twist of tension—some areas much more painful than kink torture. There were nipple clamps, some made of such thin wire you could barely feel them, meant entirely kink torture show. Others pinched like they were penetrating through your skin; still others had weights attached to them, making even small breasts like mine hang low and heavy.
There was the buggy whip, another punishing device meant for animals rather than humans, with its long shaft and small sharp lash on the end. I suspect one of the girls disposed of it because it was just too mean. A flyswatter could arouse fear in a fully grown human; a cane or a flogger, just a simple length of leather or wood, could elicit desire and pride. In BDSM anything could be repurposed, any everyday object given an entirely new meaning. Not just objects, but words, commands, thoughts, the fantasies inside your mind… All of them could be reborn, could become astonishingly real, inflicting pleasure and pain till you could no longer tell which ones were devilish and which were divine.
She worked for six years as a professional submissive, and later switch, at a commercial dungeon in Los Angeles. Instruments of Torture When I began working as a submissive at a commercial dungeon inFifty Shades of Grey was topping pun intended the bestseller lists—but my own interest in BDSM had begun many years before Christian Grey made floggers and riding crops a part of pop culture. So let me give you the tour… Paddles: These were the implements I considered the silliest when I started working at the dungeon. I was always a little scared of riding crops after that.
Floggers: If I loved the marks canes left behind, I loved kink torture experience of being flogged. About Stephanie Parent. Secondary Twitter Instagram Search. Post. Valentines: Poems by Lauren Badillo Milici. Search for: Begin typing your search above and press return to search. Press Esc to cancel. Loading Comments Required Name Required Website.Kink torture
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