Yvan, also known as member QueerYvan, is a historian of sexuality. In an ongoing series, he shares some of his favourite fetish encounters (in a whole lot of detail), as well as occasionally fill us in on the history of kink.
My master was savage with me today. I had been too slutty, wanted too much too quickly, so he put me in my place.
I was lying on the couch, my legs spread, my cheeks pulled apart for him. I rocked my hips into the black leather, I could feel my cock getting hard as he watched me. "You're such a slut," he said. And then, after a pause: "Tell me what you want."
I closed my eyes. Slowly, I started telling him how I wanted his tongue in my arse, making me warm and ready. I succumbed to that intoxicating rush of anticipation just by imagining him stretching me open and stuffing me full. I was focusing more on my thoughts than on him. This was a mistake. He waited a moment before kicking me in the balls. I collapsed forward, gasping and briefly sick, and then put myself back in position, exactly how he wanted me.
He placed the sole of his boot on my arse hole. He moved it over me, rough with my balls, until I felt his laces drag against my cock. I leant back on his foot. I'm always greedy for him. He kicked me again, just to focus me, and I was so turned on I could smell my precum.
"And you think I'm just going to let you have it? What are you going to do for me?" He nodded towards the black latex gloves, the lube, the large toys, the folded towels all lined up neatly on the table. He spat on my back.
I said: anything, and imagined him filling my hole with whatever he wanted. He told me to bring his whip. He kicked me again as I walked past, pushed me to the floor and told me to fetch on my hands and knees: "Like a dog I can whip when it forgets who is in charge." I imagined licking his feet.
"I don't want to fuck around. I'll start hard", he said, as I returned with the whip held between my teeth. "Give me as much as you can."
I consented. I know that the harder I play, the hotter the reward. If I fuck around needing to warm up until I get into the zone, he will get distracted, and just want to hurt me. I wanted to get fucked, and I'll do anything he wants to get there as soon as we can. I know my limits. I know what my body can take. I've been well trained.
* * *
I want you to whip me hard. I beg you for it. I bend my body for you, making myself look good when you flagellate me. When you tie me into place with my arms above my head, exposing my body but protecting my face, I struggle not to get hard. I love the way you watch me dance around you when it hurts.
We start off directly. You warm up my skin as you chase me around the limited space where I can move, my arms attached to a ring above my head. I can pull myself up, and hang suspended while you hit me; I can let all of my weight hang on my arms when I am beaten. Every swing hurts more. You carefully increase with power for each lash, winding me slowly higher. My skin is starting to mark. Big red blotches swell up. Sometimes you hit them again and the pain is amplified and I thrash about. It is like I am watching myself from above. I find myself in a space where I cannot move, achingly tensing my body to take every one of your swings that crack through the air around me. I love the way the whip bites my flesh. I am high on the feeling of giving myself to you this much.
You leave me hanging, panting, and step back to regard me. I feel a stream running down my back. I cannot tell if it is sweat or blood as it creeps down the cleft of my spine. I wait. The drops that land on the floor are clear. You can see that I am nearly broken, and tell me that you want me to take twenty more blows. You look me in the eyes, and spit water into my open mouth. I swallow you without breaking your gaze. I am ready for your whip.
The moments that follow are a blur. I love it when I cease feeling my body, when I disassociate from the scene and transcend to a higher plane where everything is clear and I feel renewed. I am aware that my body is tender, but I do not feel pain. I feel elated, raw, open. I feel like I am taken out of myself. The red stripes that cover my body are starting to turn purple. When I feel your face push between my arse cheeks and start to eat me, I know I have given you what you wanted.
* * *
I like the whip best. I love the crack that summons fear; the sonic boom as it breaks the speed of sound. Nothing is more intense than the aching sting that slices across my skin. Pain accelerates down the tail. It peaks just after it strikes, a sensory overload that is felt like a red-hot warning to pull away, exploding through the body like an orgasm of the flesh. Each strike takes me further into myself.
The whip is an eternal archetype of domination and punishment, treating men like beasts, torturing them into submission. Whipping was a preliminary to Roman executions, with scourges studded with metal hooks to destroy the victim before the crucifixion. Two lictors would scourge the prisoner, deeply wounding his back, arse and legs to accelerate his demise. Medieval Christians remembered this as they beat themselves into bloody messes in processions between cities, mortifying their own flesh in memory of The Cross. The cat'o'nine tails was a mainstay of discipline on board English ships, sailors tied to the mast and thrashed for subordinate behaviour. The French preferred the martinet for domestic discipline. Convicts in Australia were fastened to the A frame and flogged as an example of colonial sovereign power. Every time the whip comes out, it re-enacts thousands of years of domination over slaves and criminals, sailors and soldiers. The fear felt at the sound of it cutting through the air, cracking on your skin, has been felt for eternity. The same smells sweat out in angst as you are tied in place on the frame awaiting the sharpest torture. The same sensations fill your body. The difference between what I want and what these men suffered is consent.