Whipping Me With Scorn: Bondage Boy Pierced

By Slave Skip

From the time we open our eyes in the morning till their last drowsy flutter into dreams, our attempts to make the world fit us are as natural as breathing. My earliest sensual fascinations, even before my sexual ones, were of bondage. At an early age I would look closely at pictures of people who were tied up. Frontiersmen were captured and tied up by Indians, Joan of Arc and witches were tied to stakes, and the Old Testament and illustrated American History books showed slaves in various forms of bondage. It was fertile ground for a young, curious mind.

Since my earliest explorations of this internal curiosity, I have idly spun slowly developing daydreams into fantasy, and later fantasy into role-play. I have had enormous physical and mental gratification from shared experiences with mistresses who have touched and tortured me to levels that awaken this deep inner self. I think of the tempering process on steel; the repeated application of super heat, then the uniform cooling, that makes the steel so much harder and stronger.

A mistress that I had been seeing for years, a dear friend, gave up the craft. Another that I see was expanding her locations and becoming very difficult to get an appointment with. I began to read the fetish magazine advertisements. But looking at a photo and reading the simple formulated buzz lines that describe personalities can be very deceiving. I like to look at the mistress' posture in her photos, the chin and shoulders in particular. The facial expression tips me off to the posture's honesty. Mistress Sayako's posture and facial expression rang in harmony. She is tall, slender, and quite pretty. She seemed at ease in fetish clothing. So many others are awkward or overly 'loud' in appearance. The advertisement mentioned Asian rope bondage as a specialty, something I had never experienced before. I called and made an appointment.

The refurbished Pandora's Box is a rustic dungeon. It is tastefully designed with great care in detail, flourish, and function. I sat in the waiting room and filled out a questionnaire intended to outline my role-play preferences, including areas that would be welcome or taboo. After I returned the completed pages, I requested a short consultation with the mistress before the session. When Sayako entered the room, she sized me up without saying a word. I thanked her for seeing me and elaborated a little on my impressions of where a session should go. When I finished, she asked if that was all I had to say. I said that it was, and she left the room. I was led to a dungeon room and told to undress.

Sayako entered briskly, ordered me to stand with my hands to my sides, and promptly bound me in an exotic head-to-foot fishnet-style rope bondage that pressed me so firmly my very breath drew the ropes more tightly. I was quite impressed. She paced about me and appeared agitated. She spoke of her perceptions of me, how my attitude was wrong. She whipped me with scorn, but the torture she issued was not erotic, it was punishment she felt I truly deserved. I became confused, since I meant no disrespect. But my responses were unacceptable to her.

Her play was sharp and efficient; her talk condescending and critical. I stood before her, naked and bound, but she was convinced I was hiding something from her. I began to believe that I was; I just didn't know what . . . yet. Three words from her brought to me a litany of self-consciousness. A slap on the face, not an insult, but a test to see even the spark of resistance. There was none. I was crest-fallen. When she spoke, her voice churned with a mixture of foreboding and resolution.

After the session I tried to collect my thoughts as she replaced her gear in a small travel case. I tried again to explain to her my conceptions of sensual pleasure and pain. Her reply was soft yet stinging: "This is not about you, this is about me. I did not ask you to come here to see me, you asked to see me, and here you are. You will do as you are told because I am your mistress and deep down, that is what you want; you just don't accept it fully yet. You tell me of these high-minded spiritual concepts you embrace; I don't care. I never even read your questionnaire, I never do. You have much to learn and you can't even begin until you surrender completely to me; only then will you know true freedom."

It didn't matter that she may have repeated this to countless people before. She said it in a way so firm that no room was left for discussion. Our relationship either ended or started right there. I politely smiled, nodded, dressed, and left. I had questions I could barely articulate to myself. I have always played honestly-could I submit to her honestly? Fully? Does this require practice? Do I surrender by degrees?

She at least seems willing to answer the questions I ask. I have to admit that her not reading the questionnaire is consistent with her assumption of total control. I wondered: Should I abandon this and find another mistress who would accommodate my fantasies, or am I on the edge of something brand new? I have read and heard about people who collapse into the power of another, people who shed any self-respect and make themselves helpless pawns. She can't mean those people have found true freedom. I have to see her again to find out-I have to experience more. I won't ask a lot of questions this time-I'll try to let them be answered of their own.

Three weeks later we were back in the dungeon. Again she tied me in snug fishnet bondage. Again I was lectured and whipped for my impertinence. The whipping was harsher this time, but that is not uncommon. The skilled mistress remembers how much you handled the last time, and takes you where she left off... and beyond. Sayako has an excellent memory. Her lecture invited responses but did not require them, so I declined to offer more than the minimal acknowledgment. This went on for quite a while and as I physically and mentally weakened, I sensed that she became sharper and more robust. The dungeon has very poor acoustics and her words ricocheted off the walls. It added to the growing incomprehension that I know was beginning to show on my face.

Sayako set down her whip, walked over to her gear bag, pulled out a large strap-on dildo, and stepped into the harness, cinching it snug to her loins. She slowly strutted in front of me and smoothly lit a cigarette. The whipping may have left me weakened, but not broken. This was something I'd never experience, and didn't want to experience. "Mistress," I said, "you don't need to do that to me....if you think I want that....I never have...." She sighed wearily and said, " I've told you before, this isn't about what you want or don't want."

She untied the fishnet bondage and let it drop to the floor. A leash line was tied to the base of my scrotum; she tugged it and led me across the room to a corner where she sat on a chair and bade me kneel before her. She shortened her grasp on the leash and ordered me to remove her knee high boots. She then put her left foot on my chest and told me to massage it.

I proceeded to firmly massage first the proffered foot, then the other. "Massage my legs," she said. She slouched back into the chair seductively and tugged the leash. I was very careful now as I did not want the massage to seem forward. When I finished, she drew in her ankles and spread her knees wide. She softly slid her free hand behind my neck and drew my head down to the plastic phallus. "Suck my cock," she whispered.

Though my body never hesitated as her hand guided my neck, I reeled with confusion. I opened my mouth wider and wider. I pressed on, taking it down as deep as I could. This made no sense to me, and yet it was exactly what she wanted. Much more shocking was when she moaned with pleasure. It was the first time I did something that pleased her. Surely her moans were conjured-it couldn't be that the base of the dildo brushed her anywhere sensitive. I continued to slowly press down and draw up. I tried to duplicate the patterns that had been used on me by women. Her hand slipped up behind my head, drawing me more to her, and I became horribly aroused. What the hell was happening to me? When the session ended I was haunted with thoughts of who I might become. But when one agrees to bondage there are no rules of engagement. The degrees of submission are left for the dominant to explore.

I began to think about getting a piercing, a barbell through the underside of my penis. Since I see Sayako every three or four weeks so for maximum healing time, I waited to get the piercing right after one of our sessions. It's a true submissive's dessert after a heavy meal. When I undressed for the next session, I left a simple steel bangle on my left forearm. Sayako led me to kneel before her as she seated herself on a corner chair. I began to massage her left foot as she sipped coffee. She rested the coffee on the chair but it fell over and spilled onto the chair and floor. I got up quickly and out of her way as she avoided getting burned.

"You must clean it up," she said. "You are the slave." I grabbed the chair and lifted it out of the way. Sayako handed me a roll of paper towels. I wiped off the chair and then approached the standing liquid on the stone floor. As I began to wipe, the steel bangle clanked on the flagstones. At that moment I had a very strange and real feeling of servitude. I considered myself: bare naked, the ring a token of bondage on my wrist, doing crude manual labor on my hands and knees. A slave indeed. Sayako stood nobly to the side watching me. We seemed to be characters from a hieroglyphic scene in the tomb of an Egyptian princess. After I finished cleaning and returned to her feet she asked me if it pleased me to serve her. I assured her that it did but I couldn't begin to explain the hallucination I had just experienced.

I finished the massage and she stood me in front of a tinted mirror where the lights were dim. My wrists were cuffed and tied to hooks in the ceiling. My ankles were cuffed and linked together. With a fine line, Sayako began to tie my scrotum and penis. She discovered the piercing. "This is new....when did you get it ?" I tell her, but she doesn't look at my face. " This is good, very good." She said it aloud, but it was more to herself than to me.

She finished the bondage, stood in front of me, and began to play with my nipples. She told me how she is interested that I am writing about our sessions, and that she will assume an active role in directing my inspiration. Her nipple-play became much harder, and as I squirmed she instructed me to write a short essay on the piercing experience.

She stepped away to organize things in her bag that I couldn't see. She returned wearing latex gloves and carrying a spray bottle. After spraying my rigid penis with alcohol, she returned to the bag. She approached stridently and knelt in front of me, one hand pinching the top skin of my penis. Her other hand hid a four inch needle, which she quickly pressed through the pleated skin, low and close to my shaft. Instantly I became horrified, fascinated, and aroused. The additional skin-tuck pressured my erection into a hard bluish blush. Her face looked up innocently as I swayed my hips about like a hooked fish. My breathing became very hard.

She rose, slowly touching my hips and chest. I tried to calm myself, but she suddenly set clamps upon my nipples and drew the chains to her. Her voice was soft and thoughtful. She questioned me patiently and I stumbled for words, stumbled for thoughts.

"Tell me what you think."

".....I can't...."

"What did you feel when I pierced you?"

"....fear...apprehension...."

"Yes! Apprehension! Good! How was it different from the piercing three weeks ago?"

"......this time it ......was done...by a beautiful woman..."

"And....what...what else?"

".....it was sudden......unexpected..."

"Yes! Good!"

She spoke at length about the high levels of achievement that can only be grasped through hard work and pain. Pain is the inspiration for all things great. She will provide the pain, just the right amount to sharpen my focus, to live the experience of her domination. She applied another needle, to the underside this time, then renewed her tug upon the nipple clamps.

Intoxicated with sensual overload, I peaked with constricted sexual energy, and my struggles charged me further. I leaned toward her and brushed my cheek against her soft, cool shoulder. Quietly now she spoke, looking radiant and serene, twisting my nipples hard, telling me about the deficiency of language. I moaned low, a puppet in her hands, my penis so tight I could feel my pulse beat through it.

She began to giggle excitedly and yet with irony. She slapped me on the face with sheer joy. She looked at me, pleased with what she could see was beginning to happen to me. We swayed together as dancers, she leading with a firm grasp on my nipples, I thrusting my hips in a vain, provocative attempt to free my captured loins.

I generally sleep in pajamas, but that night I slept in the nude, with only the steel bangle on my left forearm.

End