What Yes Looks Like: Control

Even though I’d seen him once before, it was about two years ago so I asked him to tell me why he sessioned.

“I like being controlled by the Mistress,” he explained. “I like feeling helpless and vulnerable.”

Lately I’ve been feeling … I dunno, dommier than usual. Most of the time I’m all warm and juicy woo woo and collaborative and maybe even a little service toppy (the genuine confidence that you can do whatever you want means less of a need to prove it all the time). But the last couple of sessions have had a chilled edge, a selfish intensity. This is what I want.

I had him strip and then bend forward, bracing his wrists to his ankles with a wonderfully restrictive Fetters custom leather piece I inherited from the inimitable Mistress Avalon. A blindfold was added to minimize his sense of balance and maximize his vulnerability. He was folded in half, ass up in the air. He never said anything about corporal, though I’ve been lamenting that I don’t get to do it nearly enough. I grabbed a flogger.

Once his cheeks were flush from the beating and his head dizzy from the inversion, I pressed him into a seated position, still in the bondage, and began flogging his back til it, too, tingled from the rush of blood. Then I pushed him down once more onto his back so that he was face up yet still bound, like an inverted frog. “This is what I mean when I talk about control,” I said, pressing the heel of my bare foot against his chin and my toes on his chest, a simultaneous gag and restriction. I attacked his chest with a flip cat while he whimpered.

Then I teased him with a spongy deerskin flogger, trailing the soft tails across his sensitive skin, caressing his body. Then whomp! with a thuddy overhand stroke across his chest. Pop! as I flicked his nipples with the stinging tips of the tails. “This [Brush] is what I mean [Whomp] when I talk [Pop!] about control [Whomp].”

I finally removed the bondage and forced him into my new zentai sleep sack and situated him on the bondage table. “I love this suit,” I said, running my hands over his black, trembling form. “It’s so dehumanizing. In the black it’s like you’re reduced to negative space, except for your cock sticking out.” I tightened leather straps at roughly 6-8″inch intervals along the length of his body then locked them into place, immobilizing him. Next came inflatable leather mitts, locked and anchored to his sides. I chained and padlocked his feet to the bed. Then a spiked parachute, tethered to the overhead track. I gave the trolley a shove and his balls, pricked by the spikes, stretched helplessly along to follow it.

“This is what I mean when I talk about control.”

His breathing was still ragged as I ratcheted him tightly to the bed with more straps and brought out the sounds. I started with a larger gauge than I normally would and was pleased that his hole opened up to it. I could feel his body trying in vain to struggle under my hand. Alternating between Hegar and rosebud sounds, I fucked his hole repeatedly, probing and stretching it with the cool stainless steel.

The spiked parachute was replaced with the MEO ball stretcher and I cranked it open, distending his scrotum until his balls were shiny and painfully taut. So much metal. I stuffed his hole with a urethral plug and pressed the near-irresistible Hitachi Magic Wand to his cock, daring him to come. The spandex sack, the restrictive leather straps, the stretched genitals, the plug all conspired against his fervent desire for release. “I can’t come!” he gasped.

“This is what I mean when I talk about control.”