Category: Crimson Writ

On Friday I attended my first BDSM club, Bound.

I haven't had much exposure to the more public side of BDSM culture; my scenes have always been private and personal. But when a friend of mine received an invitation to attend Mistress Dolphy's birthday party celebrations, I couldn't turn down the chance to go along.

I'm glad I did.

We lucked into a parking space around the corner from the hotel (a small miracle for DC on a Friday night), where everyone was meeting for pre-celebration festivities. Up in the hotel room, the women had just finished dressing for the evening (it was medical fetish week, with nurse and doctor outfits strongly encouraged); the birthday girl, Mistress Dolphy, was dressed in a sleek custom-made black corset, garters, and knee-high boots – a deadly combination (I'm a large fan of all three).

After general introductions, we grabbed a cab and headed to the club. 

In the hallway leading into the main room was a small table selling custom BDSM toys (I wish I could remember its name – I somehow managed to lose the business card). They had creative wooden paddles in the shape of knives that felt deliciously comfortable in my hands. But I had my eye on something else and ended up purchasing a cherry wood stinger paddle.

The club itself was different from what I had expected – in a good way. The room was large enough to provide floor space for dancing, mingling, and play, but wasn't so large that it lost the sort of public intimacy that makes you feel like you're part of the group no matter where you're standing. The music was an excellent mix of techno, industrial, and goth; it was never too loud, and yet you couldn't stand in the room without feeling the beat of the music in a way that made you feel like you had to move. 

Along the right side of the room was a bar with two accommodating young women serving drinks.  In the back of the room there was a lighted stage that was constantly in use. At various times during the night, the stage hosted scenes of flogging and sensual torture; the colored lighting and practiced ease with which pain and pleasure were delivered made the entire process feel beautiful, surreal, and alive.

Over the course of the evening, I had the pleasure of watching extensive rope bondage (from a swing), saw first hand what a vacuum bed looks like, and learned that band-aids don't work so well as pasties when covering a woman's nipples. I also had some interesting conversations with several of the people there, and look forward to speaking to them again. I find it interesting that those involved in this lifestyle tend to have a greater appreciation for life.

My kind of people.

Of course, I ended up drinking too much and spent the next day trying to avoid loud noises and bright lights.

But it was worth it. If only for the garters, boots, and whips.

 

"…you remind me of what I was when I was younger.
You're this touchstone of the darker, wilder parts
of me – parts that it's easy to forget when I'm swept
up in a job, a house, a marriage, thoughts of children.

Everything about my life screams 'grow up… you
need to grow up' but then you're there to remind
me that I was younger once, and free, and innocent,
and looking at the world through unbiased and eager
eyes. Most of the time, I just feel so jaded. So
'mature.' Yes, I'm happy, but as we grow older, most
of us do yearn for our pasts… for lost youth.

The difficulty, I think, lies in keeping that part of your
soul alive, and always, in some respect, staying young
and wild. One of the things I'm afraid of with having
kids is that I'll lose my own identity. I'll become
someone's parent – the epitome of uncool. I'll forget
what I once was. It's melodramatic, but it feels
almost like willingly drowning myself. I want those
cool, sparkling depths… but it has this feeling that
I have to say goodbye to air forever."

How far would you go to keep a promise? A promise to awaken someone should they quietly acquiesce to a life of structured limits. 

—

When was the last time you were truly excited about something?

I'm not talking about the small joys found in awaiting the release date of a movie or looking forward to the late days of Spring when you can start wearing short sleeve shirts.

I'm speaking of those moments we await with almost giddy anticipation. Moments that leave us both nervous and excited at the same time. Moments that feel almost dangerous with all the potential the future holds. In many ways, these moments aren't real – they exist outside of our lives, they rise above our routines and daily grind.

But in one very important way, they are life. They are the moments that, when you are in them, make everything else feel less real, less important. What you experience in those moments can cut deep. They are not without cost. To act is to leave ourselves vulnerable and the dangers of success are often far greater than those of failure.

Finding these moments gets harder as you get older. They require a certain amount of innocence, a lack in awareness of life's expectations. As we grow, we become fettered, attached to the people and things in our lives. We strive for comfort and stability in our lives. And yet, there are knives sharp enough, ideas strong enough, words seductive enough, to tease us out, to draw us to the maelstorm's edge.

There are days where I imagine I've been honing my edges be sharp enough, strong enough, seductive enough, to cut us all free.

…again, I ask:

How far would you go to keep a promise? A promise to awaken someone should they forget what it feels like to be alive?

There is a difference between a dagger and a knife.

Daggers, today, are generally kept as aesthetic showpieces. Knives are their functional cousins.

But that doesn't mean my daggers aren't sharp.

—

I pushed her face first into the bed, rested my left hand against her back and reached down with my right to grip the handle of one of my favorite sharp implements (a silver thrusting dagger –  extremely sharp tip, its edges less so). I placed the tip at the small of her back and took my time in running it along her skin.

Tracing the curve of her ass, I felt the fabric of her pantyhose stretch in a vain attempt to protect her skin. Just before reaching the top of her thigh, I dipped the tip down just far enough to catch on the threads and then cut upwards, slicing through the fabric with quiet precision.

I love sharp toys. I ran my finger along the bare skin exposed through the ragged hole I had just created and started again. This time it was her upper right thigh that felt the teasing bite of my dagger as it moved against her skin, cutting another hole in the fabric. I followed with another at the top of her ass, and then two more along mid-thigh and lower back.

Each time the cold metal found skin, leaving faint lines against her ass and back, I felt her tremble.  After a few minutes, I tired of the game and reached down to rip the rest of it open, leaving the top of her thighs, ass, and lower back exposed.

I was ready to begin.

It had been over a year since her last scene, her last beating. She knew her tolerance levels were low, so I began slowly. I started with my doe-skin flogger and warmed her up with a few quick lashes that left her skin a blushing pink. I spaced out each snap of the flogger until I could feel her tensing.

What's worse, I asked, the bite or the flogger or not knowing when it is going to land?

The anticipation, the moments before the next stroke, she said.

After a few minutes, when I felt she was ready for more, I took up a sturdy, heavier, flogger, one of her own toys, and let it kiss her the skin of her ass. She let out a yelp. The doe-skin flogger was almost gentle compared to this. I patiently waited for her to adjust and then let it taste her again, this time along the inside of her thighs. Another on her back, then her ass again.

The rhythmic sound of leather on skin became a litany to match her cries, cries that were increasing in volume as her skin turned from pink to red. I could already see small welts where particularly harsh strikes had landed. I rested my hand on her skin, tracing her new bruises with my fingertips. Her skin was warm where the blood had rushed to the surface.

I paused and leaned over her.

Too much, I asked? 

She told her she could handle the Thump but the Sting was too much.

That's alright, I said. You were kind enough to bring a paddle with you.

Twenty minutes later, after positioning her against the wall and working her over with both floggers and paddle, I knew she was reaching her limit for the evening. At my word, she got on all fours, raising her ass. I took the silver bullet vibrator she'd brought with her and slid it between the back of her thighs.

She had been wet from the moment I had bent her over the bed, but now she was soaking.  I placed the bullet next to her and told her to take it and hold it against her clit.

Standing behind her, I began lashing her skin again with the doe-skin flogger.

You want to come, I asked, don't you? Now is your chance. Take yourself over.

But she couldn't. Not from that position, on all fours. Not while I was re-awakening the raw nerves under the skin I had abused so badly just minutes before. It was simply too much to process while trying to push herself over the edge.

I almost took pity on her.

Almost.

The closing of space is mutual, the decision to breach intimacy through controlled violence less so. Kindled necessity, sparked by the span of my fingers in measuring the distance between your throat and breasts, a reflection of the prophecy you inhaled before my hand ever found your skin. I am forced to read you from the inside, interpretation divested of meaning, a distillation of truth that suffers in comparison to your sins.

—

Innumerate, the paths you betrayed, a brutal sundering of limbs until a single road is laid stretched before you.

What dark visage did you imagine awaited you at its end?

I already know the face you hope to see. You would treat with the devil in the hope his lack of mercy is enough to make you bleed real tears. His are the true lies, the honest deceit, the silk beneath the amber, and he can cut deep, deep enough to exhume what nestles closest to your heart.

he will eviscerate you.

His fingers will never touch your entrails to see the unspooling of your life. He will not condone your hopes or give credence to your fears. He will not tell you of promised love or chances lost. All becomes irrelevant when your future belongs to him. He will rearrange your insides until they mirror his own vision of what you are to be.

It is bloody work, and once it is complete, he will lick his fingers clean.