Saturday 17th November
Another trip to Emmy. I got up early and drove the 100 miles. I had already sent her a list of photographs we could use as inspiration. After the previous evening with Dae, I was about ready for anything.
Emmy seemed slightly on edge, even nervous.
“Had a good week?” I asked.
“Dire. Worst ever. I did that wedding last week and they’ve refused to pay me. They seem to think that the pictures weren’t good enough, which I can’t believe.”
“Sorry to hear, perhaps you’ll be able to reach a deal or talk them round.”
“Then yesterday I was all booked for a portrait session here with a client and she cancelled at the last moment. I really needed that money.”
I put my arms around her to comfort her but she walked away.
She was eager to get to work and conversation between us was limited; the lighting and camera all set up. First she took normal portrait pictures of me wearing an evening jacket and bow tie and an open collar, then a roll neck jumper.
“You look like an artist, or an author.”
Then we posed together, like a handsome middle aged couple arm in arm. The sort of picture some people would take and put on their Christmas cards.
Then she picked up my selection of pictures to take and scanned them.
“I’ll need to change,” she turned on her heels and headed into her store room. She reappeared in a black leather skirt and matching black corset, complete with black, high heels and beige nylon stockings. Around her neck was a heavy silver collar, about 2inches wide. Ornate, with engraved designs and images all around.
“I bought it on Ebay for ten pounds. It’s surprising what you can get online.”
She took my breath away. Her appearance suggested a mixture of provocation and challenge. She was the mistress of her own domain, totally relaxed and fully in charge.
The dark heavy colour of her leather under the studio lighting contrasted with the subtle flesh tones of her skin.
“Put your dinner jacket and tie back on and stand over there.” She barked, setting the timer of her camera. She leaned against me and placed her hand on my shoulder, holding her head slightly away from the lens. She knew how to pose. She was no stranger to having her picture taken; her breasts were neatly pushed upwards and forwards by the top of her leather corset.
The red light on the camera stopped flashing and the shutter clicked. Emmy went to check the screen.
“Nice.” Was her only comment.
And so the rest of the day progressed. We took pictures of her spread eagled on the cross, on her desk, tightly bound with rope, kneeling in her metal cage, on the floor with me standing over her. Each composition and background carefully orchestrated by her. She loved the attention and I did everything I could to indulge her. I concentrated hard to make sure I impressed her with my basic photography skills, but then I realised she was easy to work with, easy to photograph, experienced and naturally attractive. Not only that but she had one of those faces that would look different with each pose.
Finally we exhausted my list of photographs to take. “Right, your turn. Take your clothes off, then on the cross.”
“Everything off?” I asked.
I was nervous and vulnerable, trying hard not to shiver. I felt safer behind the camera. I was trusting her with everything. My wallet and car keys were in my jacket on the floor, but she’d trusted me in exactly the same way. As I stood there facing the cross, she fastened my feet and wrists with the metal clasps. She went back and adjusted the camera - I could hear the familiar click of the shutter. Then silence. The lack of sound concerned me since I couldn’t turn my head around to see what she was up to.
I could feel her next to me with a coldness running up and down my bare back. And then her leather glove gently probing, prodding my face, running through my hair.
“I know this wasn’t on your list, but as we’re here now I thought I’d treat you - besides, I need some practice, and I’ve had a bad week.” She added. “Also see this as payback for the way you treated me last time.” My heart missed a beat. I felt like a fly trapped in a web with the spider crawling towards me.
Shit, I thought as I recognised the curled menacing whip in her hand. She handled it like a dangerous snake; the only thing missing was the forked tongue and a hissing sound.
I could feel her hand exploring my backside. “Some men pay a lot of money for this.” A voice in my head told me this wasn’t happening.
She stepped back. I tensed and shut my eyes. With every last ounce of effort I pulled hard to set myself free, but to no effect.
Softly at first, the dangerous embrace of the end of the whip was soft as it flew around my torso. Then, Emmy pulled away from me. It tugged at my skin, pulling, stretching it with each contact. I was relieved that whipping was not the danger that I had anticipated it was. But these thoughts vanished as the energy of the whip increased. It started to pull viciously at the skin on my back. And then came the familiar cracking sound.
I don’t know how many times she struck me; I just hung there and closed my eyes, praying that her motives were to play with me rather than inflict serious pain. But I was wrong and she carried on. She found a deadly rhythm and the frequency of her impacts increased. I felt burning heat all over my back. Stabbing razor sharp pain that grew and grew, not only on the surface of my body but also deep inside me.
Finally I could stand no more. “December, December,” I shouted and her whipping stopped.
She came close. “What’s that you’re saying?” she whispered, with a threatening expression on her face.
“It’s, it’s the safe word.” I was finding it difficult to speak coherently.
“I think you’re confused. That’s my safe word. You haven’t got one.”
With that she stood back, letting the end of the whip trail along the floor behind her.
More pain. It wasn’t precise, exquisite, nor bittersweet; it was hellish pain, pure and simple, from the darkest recesses of reality. With every strike I shouted out in agony. She paused and stood next to me again. I gasped for air.
“I have discovered the secret to all this,” she pondered, whispering softly in my ear, “and that is, the more a man submits, the more pleasure I get.”
Her eyes explored the depth of my growing despair. She could tell I was in a new world; I had crossed from one where I was in control, where I could determine what happened to me, to a new one, where only fear filled my mind. Then she really started to get me worried as she continued.
“I believe, one day soon, women will rise up and take their rightful place as rulers. Men have done nothing but bring destruction and poverty to the surface of this world. You have all had your chance, now it’s our turn. You men are so weak, so shallow, so pitiful.”
I shivered with dread as she stepped back once more. A voice deep in my subconscious shouted for me to run, but I couldn’t. I hung there, entrapped by my stupid obsession with women. This scenario had never been part of my plan. I hated myself for being naïve and stupid.
“Some say being a domme is about trust, care and devotion, but that’s complete nonsense. It’s about whips and chains,” she explained. Then she went on, “when a man loves a woman, he can be controlled. When a man both loves and fears a woman at the same time, he can be totally dominated. What do you think?”
“I think you’re right,” I whimpered, humouring her, not wanting to get into an argument of any kind.
It became blindingly obvious to me in that moment despite what she had said about herself, that there were two sides to her personality, one was a rational photographer, and the other, a crazed, dangerous sadist with an eye on world domination.
Her destructive onslaught continued but I could tell that she knew it was time to stop as the power behind her blows diminished. She was playing with me, the same way a cat gets bored with a dying mouse.
“That’ll do nicely,” she said, clearly impressed with her sadism. She inspected her handiwork and ran her finger nails down my spine in a manner intended to cause pain.
Slowly, she placed her arm tightly around my neck and I could feel the cool sensation of her corset and skirt pressing against my throbbing back. “The trick is to find the balance between maximum pain, whilst not breaking the skin. It’s the speed of the blows that count, not so much the force behind each one.” She sounded expert. “It’s all about overloading the nervous system without causing excessive physical damage.”
I dropped to my knees, drained and exhausted, terrified of what I would see on my back. As she released me I promised myself never to go through that again. She lovingly inspected her whip and coiled it up, whilst I ever so carefully and slowly put my clothes back on, praying that the marks on my back would heal quickly. I checked in her mirror to make sure I wasn’t bleeding. Luckily, no blood; I could only see only large areas and lines of redness with some blackness. She watched my every tortured move, curious about the lasting effect her whipping was having on me.
“That bloody hurt. Can’t believe you did that to me,” I complained.
“You come to visit me. You know my interest in BDSM. You know I have all manner of equipment here. What exactly were you expecting? A couple of chocolate biscuits and a cup of tea?” She joked.
Then she went on, “time and time again, men contact me and say much they want what I have to offer, but they don’t really. It’s a fantasy and then they come face to face with the real thing. Mostly they’re wimps and back out, but there are one or two true masochists with a high pain threshold.”
At our first meeting she seemed a little odd, but nothing beyond that. I didn’t think that she would ever be a danger to me but I was mistaken. I hadn’t planned to be part of her twisted experiment. As I hung there on the cross I began to hate and fear her with every breath in my body but then, as my mind returned back to the real world my new found feelings of hatred for her started to subside. With each passing moment she transformed from my evil heartless antagonist, back to my gorgeous, but still dangerous, companion. I felt as though I had been forced to run a marathon of humiliating despair and was now past the finishing line.
Time came for a welcome rest, for my senses to return to normal. I could tell Emmy was quietly pleased with her handiwork as we sat there in comfortable silence.
Moving slowly to avoid the nagging pain in my back, I pulled a chilled bottle of champagne from my black bag and poured two full, bubbling glasses.
She fingered her glass and looked lost somehow.
“I’ve never hurt anyone like that before,” she mused, with a slight tone of guilt in her voice.
My body was still alive with the sensations from her whip & I felt restless, eager to make the most of my time with her. She sat there drinking while I went to the control box of the hoist hanging from the ceiling. The electric motor whirred loudly as the cable and hook ever so slowly descended to the floor.
Emmy looked bemused and carried on drinking whilst I headed to the store room, emerging with some short chrome poles and chains.
“Over here.” I ordered, standing ready with cuffs ready to apply to her wrists and ankles. I pulled her hair backwards and kissed her squarely on her neck.
I secured her with the chrome poles between her wrists and ankles. She appeared like a helpless puppet, enmeshed in her knotted up strings. The motor hummed once more as I took the control box into my hand; this time the hook was attached to Emmy - she ascended upwards, her arms being pulled remorselessly above her head.
“Two hundred and fifty kilos you say, so it’ll take your weight no problem, even if you’ve had a big breakfast” I laughed, so did she, but not in the same way – I knew what was going to happen, she didn’t.
Her hands went tight against the cuffs, as she was pulled into the air. Her breathing quickened as her arms started to bear the full weight of her body; her legs were held apart by the chrome pole attached to her ankles. Her feet no longer touched the floor and she started to rotate very, very slowly.
Her struggles were futile. All she could manage to do was bend her knees.
I drew up a chair and sipped my champagne as I took in her full beauty as she went round in front of me. Her uncomfortable predicament suited my mood; I wanted to dispel my feeling of missing Dae.
“This really hurts. My arms hurt,” she complained. But then a part of me wanted to hurt her. I felt a need to toughen-up; to be a better dominant, to meet Dae’s expectations. Not forgetting that my back was still on fire from her assault on me with her whip. I felt there was a score to settle.
I waited a while but then let her down a bit, enough to get the soles of her feet back on the floor.
I finished my glass and felt impelled to explore her extended body. My tongue played firstly with her nipples and then her ears. She recoiled with each lick. Then down to her skirt, my hand feeling its way slowly up her inner thighs.
She was now totally submissive before me and ready for the next phase of her ordeal. I took out a brand new vibrator from my bag. It hummed when I switched it on and pushed it forcefully upwards under her leather skirt. I could feel her body embrace and clench and then unclench it. She drew it into her and then pushed out again and again.
“Kiss me, kiss me,” she demanded. I grabbed her hair and my lips hovered tormentingly close to hers, but there was no contact. Just the ever so soft sensation of her hot, damp panting breath on my face. This was nothing to do with love and affection, this was pure revenge.
Five times I took her to the brink and then switched off the vibrator, returning to my waiting cool glass of champagne. She shouted at me relentlessly as I playfully flicked the knobs on the control box and she went up and down, firstly with her feet on the floor and then gently spinning once more in the air.
I made sure she was physically exhausted and I rammed the vibrator hard into her for the last time.
She had previously told me that she would only orgasm once but after the second one I let her ramble on for a bit and let her endorphins inside her drain away. I gave her a sip of champagne, allowed much of it to pour over her chest and then set about my work for the last time. She protested loudly and showed a pitiful effort in resisting me.
“How about a good whipping?” I quipped.
“Who’s in charge here?”
I headed to her store cupboard to get her beloved whip. It took a while to get the whipping action right, to make it crack properly in the air time after time. And then came her turn. Taking off her corset was challenging but before my hands caressed her sweet naked breasts. A few well placed attempts with the whip close to her body and then a teasing sideways action with the end of the whip wrapping right around her torso.
“December, December.” The pleading tone in her voice said it all. Her head slumped forward and she’d had enough tormenting for one day. I wasn’t really in the mood for stopping; what I really wanted to do was prove that men are stronger than women and all her talk about feminine world domination was nonsense.
I lowered her limp body to the floor and released her from her bonds. Twenty minutes passed before she summoned enough strength to stand up. Luckily just the one small red mark on her back.
After five hours with her that day, I felt totally drained, happy and pleased, but drained.
On my way home, I had to stop, park the car at the southbound Fleet motorway services area and unwind. My back was still on fire from Emmy’s whipping. I watched happy couples arm in arm arriving and leaving from the main entrance, carrying their take away coffee and sandwiches. They had each other, I had no one. Once back home, I endured another empty Saturday night on my own. My family was still away in Florida. Looking at a mirror, I took off my shirt and inspected the crisscross red marks on my back left by Emmy’s whip. Evidence that there was a very dangerous side to her. I needed to be careful that these marks remained concealed, especially when I played sports.
The pain in my back was unwelcome and a distraction as I went about my work during the day; it was a reminder that I had joined the ranks of those whose sexual activities were not mundane. True, Emmy had taken things a little far but I had lived to tell the tale. It had been an experience to say the least, but not one I wanted to repeat. Playing with fire was a phrase that came to mind. I wasn’t sure that it was wise for me to see her again.
An ice cold beer from the fridge is what I needed. I was consumed with feelings of loneliness and a need to be with somebody. Somebody loving and normal who would reverse my declining happiness.