Primistry

Many kinksters will argue that BDSM is about physics- the creamy rhythm between the cane and the flesh, or the quiet intensity of tying a submissive in a challenging and artistic position. Others might counter by saying that is all about biology- kink electrifying the exchange of endorphins and fuelling the intensity of the pain and pleasure paradigm.

Two episodes with my Mistress recently illustrated to me that whilst both above are true, its chemistry that is the all-important science, needed to create the perfect scene between Dominant sadist and compliant submissive. Barely twelve hours apart, they are the ying and the yang of our warm, thrilling and scary foray into kink- one possibly the best scenario we have ever shared, immediately followed by our worst. The yawning chasm between them was the down to chemistry.

Kink Heaven

It was a Sunday evening, after a long day in London. Prim ran me a bath, the only woman to ever have done this, and quietly cooed as she washed me all over, inside and out, making me feel relaxed and wanted. Dressed especially for pleasure, she offered me her delicious bottom over the edge of the bath...I dutifully fingered her to a squirting orgasm into my bathwater.

Lovingly dried, she led me naked and collared into my warm and dimly lit bedroom, and could not resist ordering me to pleasure all three of her holes with my tongue. I knelt naked on the bed, always loving the feeling of my full balls and dripping cock hanging between my legs, and did my best.

After a while she rose and busied herself, humming gently her familiar song as she tethered me to my bed, laid on my back and legs tied together, her bonds across my body from top to bottom. She then softly informed me she would have to use her new crops and canes on my most sensitive area- the front of my thighs. She had put me in such a place I would have accepted anything from her at this point- not that I could escape. I watched her in the half light, dressed to kill, selecting her favourite weapons, all of them recently donated by a true masochist she had met- if this increased the pressure on both of us, neither of us showed it.

She knelt by my head and stroked my hair. I looked up into her dark eyes, and we both knew what did not need to be said; it was going to hurt, she needed to do it, I needed to accept it. The love and lust crackled between us.

She began in groups of six. As ever she eschewed much of a warm up, refusing to delay her pleasure to make it easier on me. I lay there in the gloaming, watching the moon rise through the open curtains, feeling the white hot pain scald my thighs and screaming out when I could not hold it in. After each session she soothed me, allowing me to calm and collect myself ready for the next ordeal. The sheer inevitability of the torture, cocooned so incongruously in a soft blanket of desire and sensuality, was unbelievably arousing.

She felt it too and after 50 or so blows, she needed to pleasure both herself and her tethered subject. She offered me her nipples, and gently cropped my tongue as I worshipped them. She rode my cock facing away from me, so I could see her quite magnificent lilywhite arse bouncing up and down on my bound form. And finally, she stuffed her tongue into my own hole- something she had never done- licked into every crevice and bulge before holding me down and milking my cock to a painful and messy crescendo, leaving me writhing and begging for release in her arms, my face screwed into orgasmic bliss deep in her cleavage.

Afterwards we both lay there, marvelling at what we had created, wallowing in the warm sensuous and rich atmosphere, breathing finally returning to normal, the emotion overwhelming us both.

Kink Hell

12 hours later we were in a jam on the M25, grumpily taking detours and letting the bickering fester as we crawled to our appointment in a dungeon 50 miles away.

Maybe it was the miserable weather, maybe it was my own temper, maybe it was the knowledge that nothing could top the previous night- but we both felt the tension growing, infecting our lust and gnawing at the bond between us.

By the time we were alone in the dungeon, tucked away in woodland in a genteel housing estate, we both knew what we could not say- there was a chasm between us, an unspoken blockage that could only become an obstruction to our pleasure.

The location did not help; a brilliant construction and packed with every toy and contraption, it was brightly lit and cold. But the biggest problem was that it was not ours- we seldom played in such well appointed space, preferring a more improvised and organic approach. I felt that I was incapable of doing all this justice; she felt intimidated by the need to somehow service me with all this I had brought her, rather than me her. In any event, the chemistry was all wrong and it soon showed.

Strapped to a bench she routinely beat me, heavy perfunctory blows, using the huge array of equipment hanging from the wall. Somehow all of it hurt too much and I raged and thrashed in my bonds, getting more and more angry as she carried on, almost in spite of my anger. Quickly it became clear we were in fact both alone in this space, neither really wanting it, both annoyed at the obligation nonetheless and frustrated we could not recreate the usual magic between us. Barely a word had been spoken since we entered the room.

Eventually she had me strung up to a harness hanging from the roof. I was double hooded and my cock tied and weighted. I started to relax and enjoy it- this was a scenario we had talked about and I felt perhaps we were back on track. But I could not see her and had badly miscalculated- by now she was at her most dispassionate, I had become simply another body to sate her crazy thirst, had lost my status and my bond with her.

She slapped my face and spat into it. I had long craved this degradation but in this atmosphere it was toxic and the wrong side of the humiliation line- a line that we inadvertently rubbed out hours before.

She left me hanging there, panting, chilled, exposed. Suddenly I felt a strange ripping sensation, immediately followed by pain that made me bellow and scream as I never had before; she walked around my body, ripping my flesh with her nails, leaving tiger-striped welts across my ribs and back, and deeper, more calculated gouges deep in my already bruised buttocks.

Standing behind me, she told me I was bleeding in the way a man in the street might tell a stranger who had fallen in front of him. I hung there, my body quivering in the shock of the assault, and my skin seared by her cold blooded savagery; but more shocked by the sudden absence of empathy and warmth and understanding between us.

Three weeks later, and the physical scars have not healed yet, although the emotional ones have- our bond too strong to be damaged by this for too long.

The stark contrast between both of these episodes has taught us something, Although both were exciting in their own right- the first an erotic masterpiece, the second an exercise in detached sadism- only the first will stay with us and help us grow.

Only the chemistry of that first magical session, as she calmly milked me of my fear, my tears and my cum in my dimly lit bedroom, could have been created by us and will stand as a monument to the synchronicity between us. The second, a chemistry-free and disposable piece of savagery that could have been visited on any naked form hanging from the ceiling in someone else's dungeon, will be instantly forgotten as soon as the scars heal.