I make my way down 28th Street in Midtown Manhattan, weaving though the lunchtime crowds that flow in streams and eddies along the sidewalks. The street is jammed with taxis, cars, and delivery trucks. I walk slower than I usually would, not wanting to be either late or early for my appointment. Just beyond 6th Avenue, I stop before an unmarked gray door, check the time on my watch, and push the button for 7A on the intercom.
The intercom squawks "who is it?" I give my scene name and I hear the buzzer vibrate on the door, letting me in. I walk down a short dimly lit hallway to an elevator. If dungeons in Middle Ages were in the subterranean vaults of castle keeps, in New York the "dungeons" are now in the lofts of buildings left behind when high rents drove light industry out of the city. The elevator rattles and rocks as it ascends to the 7th floor. The door opens and I walk down the hallway to the metal door marked 7A.
When I open the door and step inside a small anteroom, she is there to greet me. She is Asian - pretty, petite, with long, straight, black hair and flashing eyes. She is dressed in street clothes - a crisp white blouse, a pair of dark slacks and flats. She holds out her hand and calls me by name. With me in my suit, we could be having a business meeting. There is still business to transact, although that is not why I am here. It occurs to me that I must be her first client of the day, although instead of "client" the word "victim" forms in my head. The juxtaposition of the two words feels perversely amusing.
I take her offered hand and and am impressed by her firm grasp.
"It is a pleasure to meet you," she says.
"The pleasure is mine, Mistress," I reply, to which she smiles. I wonder how much pleasure I will feel amidst the pain. This is our first session together. I am both excited and frankly frightened.
She releases my hand, turns and opens another door. She gestures that I should go inside.
"Put the tribute on the table. Take off your clothes and kneel facing away from the door. I will be with you in a few minutes."
Her voice, warm and welcoming a moment before, now sounds cold.
"Yes, Mistress," I reply. I step through the threshold and the door closes behind me.
Within a few minutes, I am naked and kneeling on the cool concrete floor facing away from the doorway, as instructed. My clothes are folded on a chair by the door. I have placed a white envelope with the tribute on the small table next to the chair.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. A window overlooking the street is blocked by a heavy curtain with the glow of daylight escaping only at the edges. A torchiere shining faintly at the high ceiling in the far corner of the room is the only other illumination.
Soon I can make out a large St. Andrew's Cross, with straps to hold a willing supplicant, against the far wall. Nearby is a flogging bench in front of a large wall-sized mirror. Along the remaining wall, whips, canes, and bondage gear hang from pegs, at the ready.
My eyes are fixed on the canes. I have sessioned many times before and have endured whips and paddles but I have never been caned. I am told that caning can be the most intense, nasty form of play, more vicious and yet possibly more satisfying than any other impact play. I have wondered how I will handle the sensations. Will I be stoic or will I break down sobbing, begging for mercy?
In our phone conversation of days before, I mentioned an interest in being caned to Mistress and she had reacted with an evil chuckle. Looking at the rattan and poly canes of various sizes, I wonder if once again, I should be more careful what I wish for.
My heart is racing. I breathe deeply to regain control. I am both frightened and exhilarated. I can feel the change beginning to take place.
A few minutes ago I was one of the myriad New Yorkers in business attire, trapped in offices or rushing to meetings. Now, I am something entirely different. The outside world is somewhere else. I have been stripped naked, literally and figuratively. I have become primal. Naked. Ready to bare both my flesh and my soul to the whatever my Mistress will subject me to. Whether ice or fire, it will be both catharsis and a voyage of discovery.
I am grateful that she has given me some time to prepare myself, to shed my other existence as well as my clothes. I listen to the sound of traffic from the street, floors below. The sound seems to flow in waves like the call of a distant ocean. I let the waves wash over me. I am breathing slowly and deeply now. I close my eyes and draw myself inward. I am ready.
After about ten minutes, I hear the door open and close, followed by the click, click, click of heels on the concrete floor. She is small, wearing a black leather bodice and knee high black boots. I am over six feet tall, but on my knees, she towers over me.
She looks me up and down as if to inspect the specimen that she has to work with. With one hand she gently caresses my face and then an instant later, slaps my cheek. The slap is not hard, as if to merely catch my attention.
She looks deep into my eyes and steps closer, reaching out for my nipples. I am reminded of her firm hand shake as her strong fingers squeeze and twist. Her nails are short, but they feel like sharpened steel as they seem to slice into the tender flesh. I gasp. She smiles.
As she works on my nipples, I feel the blood rushing to my cock. She glances down.
"Well, I see someone has woken up."
She gives my nipples one last particularly hard twist and lets go. She reaches lower, ignoring my hard cock. With one hand, she cradles my balls, rocking them back and forth as if they were dice she is about ready to throw at a roulette table.
Then slowly, ever so slowly, she begins to squeeze. She is looking into my eyes and tightening her grasp around my balls. The pain starts out as an ache and keeps building until I open my mouth in a silent scream. I close my eyes to the blinding pain.
I hear her laugh. She lets go of my balls and is smiling at me as I open my eyes again.
"Stand up. Let's have some fun," she says at little more than a whisper.
She walks over to the rack on the wall and takes two canes - one wooden and one plastic.
"Normally, I would choose, but as this is our first time together... Should I use the rattan or the poly?" She smiles, rather sweetly, as if she is offering me choices from the desert tray in a restaurant.
I have no idea which instrument is better or worse. And what is better and what is worse? More pain or less? I am struck by the absurdity of it all. I came here to be be beaten. I am paying to suffer at the hands of such a lovely young woman with a reputation as a vicious sadist.
Why would anyone ask for pain? That is a long, complicated, and probably pointless discussion. All I know now is that at this moment, that is what I want.
"Rattan, please, Mistress. Thank you."
